OUR  OLD  HOME.  —  See  page  63. 


ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  EDITION. 


OUR   OLD   HOME, 


AND 


SEPTIMIUS    FELTON 


BY 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


TWO  VOLUMES   IN   ONE 


BOSTON: 
JAMES   R.   OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

LATH  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  £  Co. 
I375- 


;  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  t«7i  by 
NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE, 
b  the  Clerk  VO«ce  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 


LOAN  STACK 


PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


Al 
1875 


OUR  OLD  HOME: 

A    SERIES    OF    ENGLISH    SKETCHES. 


443 


To 
FRANKLIN    PIERCE, 

&   SLIGHT   MEMORIAL  OF   A   COLLEGE   FRIENDSHIP,   PROLONGED 
THROUGH   MANHOOD,   AND    RETAINING   ALL   ITS   VITALITY 
IN  OUR  AUTUMNAL  YEARS, 

£JH*   Volume    In   Enscrffaeu 

BT  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE- 


CONTENTS. 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES •  •  •  •      9 

LEAMINGTON  SPA 49 

ABOUT  WARWICK 77 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN 106 

LlCHFIELD   AND   TJTTOXETER 141 

PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON 163 

NEAR  OXFORD 195 

SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS 225 

A  LONDON  SUBURB 248 

UP  THE  THAMES 282 

OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY 320 

Civic  BANQUETS *58 


TO  A  FRIEND. 


1  HAVE  not  asked  your  consent,  my  dear  General,  to  th 
foregoing  inscription,  because  it  would  have  been  no  inconsid 
erable  disappointment  to  me  had  you  withheld  it ;  for  1  have 
long  desired  to  connect  your  name  with  some  book  of  mine,  in 
commemoration  of  an  early  friendship  that*  has  grown  old 
between  two  individuals  of  widely  dissimilar  pursuits  and 
fortunes.  I  only  wish  that  the  offering  were  a  worthier  one 
than  this  volume  of  sketches,  which  certainly  are  not  of  a 
kind  likely  to  prove  interesting  to  a  statesman  in  retirement, 
inasmuch  as  they  meddle  with  no  matters  of  policy  or  govern 
ment,  and  have  very  little  to  say  about  the  deeper  traits  of 
national  character.  In  their  humble  way,  they  belong  entirely 
to  aesthetic  literature,  and  can  achieve  no  higher  success  than 
to  represent  to  the  American  reader  a  few  of  the  external 
aspects  of  English  scenery  and  life,  especially  those  that  are 
touched  with  the  antique  charm  to  which  our  countrymen  are 
more  susceptible  than  are  the  people  among  whom  it  is  of 
native  growth. 

I  once  hoped,  indeed,  that  so  slight  a  volume  would  not  be 
all  that  I  might  write.  These  and  other  sketches,  with  which, 
in  a  somewhat  rougher  form  than  I  have  given  them  lu-re,  my 
journal  was  copiously  filled,  were  intended  for  the  side-scenes 
a -id  backgrounds  and  exterior  adornment  of  a  work  of  fic 
tion  of  which  the  plan  had  imperfectly  developed  itself  in  my 
mind,  and  into  which  I  ambitiously  proposed  to  convey  more 
of  various  modes  of  truth  than  I  could  have  grasped  by  a 
direct  effort.  Of  course,  I  should  not  mention  this  abortive 
project,  only  that  it  has  been  utterly  thrown  aside  and  will 


X  TO   A  FRIEND. 

never  now  be  accomplished.  The  Present,  the  Immediate,  the 
Actual,  has  proved  too  potent  for  me.  It  takes  away  not 
only  my  scanty  faculty,  but  even  my  desire  for  imaginative 
composition,  and  leaves  me  sadly  content  to  scatter  a  thousand 
peaceful  fantasies  upon  the  hurricane  that  is  sweeping  us  all 
along  with  it,  possibly,  into  a  Limbo  where  our  nation  and  its 
polity  may  be  as  literally  the  fragments  of  a  shattered  dream  as 
my  unwritten  Romance.  But  I  have  far  better  hopes  for  our 
dear  country;  and  for  my  individual  share  of  the  catastrophe, 
1  afflict  myself  little,  or  not  at  all,  and  shall  easily  find  room 
for  the  abortive  work  on  a  certain  ideal  shelf,  where  are  re- 
posited  many  other  shadowy  volumes  of  mine,  more  in  num 
ber,  and  very  much  superior  in  quality,  to  those  which  I  hava 
succeeded  in  rendering  actual. 

To  return  to  these  poor  Sketches ;  some  of  my  friends  have 
told  me  that  they  evince  an  asperity  of  sentiment  towards  the 
English  people  which  I  ought  not  to  feel,  and  which  it  is 
highly  inexpedient  to  express.  The  charge  surprises  me,  be 
cause,  if  it  be  true,  I  have  written  from  a  shallower  mood  than 
I  supposed.  I  seldom  came  into  personal  relations  with  an 
Englishman  without  beginning  to  like  him,  and  feeling  my 
favorable  impression  wax  stronger  with  the  progress  of  the 
acquaintance.  I  never  stood  in  an  English  crowd  without 
being  conscious  of  hereditary  sympathies.  Nevertheless,  it 
is  undeniable  that  an  American  is  continually  thrown  upon 
his  national  antagonism  by  some  acrid  quality  in  the  moral 
atmosphere  of  England.  These  people  think  so  loftily  of 
themselves,  and  so  contemptuously  of  everybody  else,  that  it 
requires  more  generosity  than  I  possess  to  keep  always  in  per 
fectly  good  humor  with  them.  Jotting  down  the  little  acrimo 
nies  of  the  moment  in  my  journal,  and  transferring  them 
thence  (when  they  happened  to  be  tolerably  well  expressed) 
to  these  pages,  it  is  very  possible  that  I  may  have  said  things 
which  a  profound  observer  of  national  character  would  hesitate 
to  sanction,  though  never  any,  I  verily  believe,  that  had  not 


TO  A  FRIEND.  XI 

more  or  less  of  truth.  If  they  be  true,  there  is  no  reason  ia 
the  world  why  they  should  not  be  said.  Not  an  Englishman 
of  them  all  ever  spared  America  for  courtesy's  sake  or  kind 
ness  ;  nor,  in  my  opinion,  would  it  contribute  in  the  least  to 
our  mutual  advantage  and  comfort  if  we  were  to  besmear  one 
another  all  over  with  butter  and  honey.  At  any  rate,  wo 
must  not  judge  of  an  Englishman's  susceptibilities  by  our  own, 
which,  likewise,  I  trust,  are  of  a  far  less  sensitive  texture  than 
ormerly. 

And  now  farewell,  my  dear  friend ;  and  excuse  (if  you  think 
it  needs  any  excuse)  the  freedom  with  which  I  thus  publicly 
assert  a  personal  friendship  between  a  private  individual  and 
a  statesman  who  has  filled  what  was  then  the  most  august 
position  in  the  world.  But  I  dedicate  my  book  to  the  Friend, 
and  shall  defer  a  colloquy  with  the  Statesman  till  some 
calmer  and  sunnier  hour.  Only  this  let  me  say,  that,  with 
the  record  of  your  life  in  my  memory,  and  with  a  sense  of 
your  character  in  my  deeper  consciousness  as  among  the  few 
things  that  time  has  left  as  it  found  them,  I  need  no  assurance 
that  you  continue  faithful  forever  to  that  grand  idea  of  an 
irrevocable  Union,  which,  as  you  once  told  me,  was  the  earli 
est  that  your  brave  father  taught  you.  For  other  men  there 
may  be  a  choice  of  paths  —  for  you,  but  one ;  and  it  rests 
among  my  certainties  that  no  man's  loyalty  is  more  steadfast, 
no  man's  hopes  or  apprehensions  on  behalf  of  our  national 
existence  more  deeply  heartfelt,  or  more  closely  intertwined 
with  his  possibilities  of  personal  happiness,  than  those  of 
FRANKLIN  PIERCE. 

THE  WAYSIDE,  July  2,  1863. 


OUR  OLD  HOME. 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

THE  Consulate  of  the  United  States,  in  my  day,  was 
located  in  Washington  Buildings,  (a  shabby  and  smoke- 
stained  edifice  of  four  stories  high,  thus  illustriously  named 
in  honor  of  our  national  establishment,)  at  the  lower  cor 
ner  of  Brunswick  Street,  contiguous  to  the  Goree  Ar 
cade,  and  in  th*1  neighborhood  of  some  of  the  oldest 
docks.  This  was  by  no  means  a  polite  or  elegant  portion 
of  England's  great  commercial  city,  nor  were  the  apart 
ments  of  the  American  official  so  splendid  as  to  indicate 
the  assumption  of  much  consular  pomp  on  his  part.  A 
narrow  and  ill-lighted  staircase  gave  access  to  an  equally 
narrow  and  ill-lighted  passage-way  on  the  first  floor,  at 
the  extremity  of  which,  surmounting  a  door-frame,  ap 
peared  an  exceedingly  stiff  pictorial  representation  of  the 
Goose  and  Gridiron,  according  to  the  English  idea  of 
those  ever-to-be-honored  symbols.  The  staircase  and 
passage-way  were  often  thronged,  of  a  morning,  with  a 
set  of  beggarly  and  piratical-looking  scoundrels,  (I  do  no 
wrong  to  our  own  countrymen  in  styling  them  so,  for  not 
one  in  twenty  was  a  genuine  American,)  purporting  to 


10  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

belong  to  our  mercantile  marine,  and  chiefly  compose i  of 
Liverpool  Blackballers  and  the  scum  of  every  man  time 
nation  on  earth  ;  such  being  the  seamen  by  whose  assist 
ance  we  then  disputed  the  navigation  of  the  world  with 
England.  These  specimens  of  a  most  unfortunate  class 
of  people  were  shipwrecked  crews  in  quest  of  bed,  board, 
and  clothing,  invalids  asking  permits  for  the  hospital, 
bruised  and  bloody  -wretches  complaining  of  ill-treatment 
by  their  officers,  drunkards,  desperadoes,  vagabonds,  and 
cheats,  perplexingly  intermingled  with  an  uncertain  pro 
portion  of  reasonably  honest  men.  All  of  them  (save 
here  and  there  a  poor  devil  of  a  kidnapped  landsman  in 
his  shore-going  rags)  wore  red  flannel  shirts,  in  which 
they  had  sweltered  or  shivered  throughout  the  voyage, 
and  all  required  consular  assistance  in  one  form  or 
another. 

Any  respectable  visitor,  if  he  could  make  up  his  mind 
to  elbow  a  passage  among  these  sea-monsters,  was  admit 
ted  into  an  outer  office,  where  he  found  more  of  the  same 
species,  explaining  their  respective  wants  or  grievances 
to  the  Vice- Consul  and  clerks,  while  their  shipmates 
awaited  their  turn  outside  the  door.  Passing  through 
this  exterior  court,  the  stranger  was  ushered  into  an  in 
ner  privacy,  where  sat  the  Consul  himself,  ready  to  give 
personal  attention  to  such  peculiarly  difficult  and  more 
important  cases  as  might  demand  the  exercise  of  (what 
tve  will  courteously  suppdse  to  be)  his  own  higher  judi 
cial  or  administrative  sagacity. 

It  was  an  apartment  of  very  moderate  size,  painted  in 
imitation  of  oak,  and  duskily  lighted  by  two  windows 
looking  across  a  by-street  at  the  rough  brick-side  of  an 
immense  cotton  warehouse,  a  plainer  and  uglier  structure 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  11 

than  ever  was  built  in  America.  On  the  walls  of  the 
room  hung  a  large  map  of  the  United  States,  (as  they 
were,  twenty  years  ago,  but  seem  little  likely  to  be, 
twenty  years  hence,)  and  a  similar  one  of  Great  Britain, 
with  its  territory  so  provokingly  compact,  that  we  may 
expect  it  to  sink  sooner  than  sunder.  Farther  adornments 
were  some  rude  engravings  of  our  naval  victories  in  the 
war  of  1812,  together  with  the  Tennessee  State  House, 
and  a  Hudson  River  steamer,  and  a  colored,  life-size 
lithograph  of  General  Taylor,  with  an  honest  hideousness 
of  aspect,  occupying  the  place  of  honor  above  the  mantel 
piece.  On  the  top  of  a  bookcase  stood  a  fierce  and  ter 
rible  bust  of  General  Jackson,  pilloried  in  a  military 
collar  which  rose  above  his  ears,  and  frowning  forth  im- 
mitigably  at  any  Englishman  who  might  happen  to  cross 
the  threshold.  I  am  afraid,  however,  that  the  truculence 
of  the  old  General's  expression  was  utterly  thrown  away 
on  this  stolid  and  obdurate  race  of  men  ;  for,  when  they 
occasionally  inquired  whom  this  work  of  art  represented, 
I  was  mortified  to  find  that  the  younger  ones  had  never 
heard  of  the  battle  of  New  Orleans,  and  that  their  elders 
had  either  forgotten  it  altogether,  or  contrived  to  mis- 
remember,  and  twist  it  wrong  end  foremost  into  something 
like  an  English  victory.  They  have  caught  from  the  old 
Romans  (whom  they  resemble  in  so  many  other  charac 
teristics)  this  excellent  method  of  keeping  the  national 
glory  intact  by  sweeping  all  defeats  and  humiliations  clean 
out  of  their  memory.  Nevertheless,  my  patriotism  for 
bade  me  to  take  down  either  the  bust  or  the  pictures, 
both  because  it  seemed  no  more  than  right  that  an  Amer 
ican  Consulate  (being  a  little  patch  of  our  nationality  im 
bedded  into  the  soil  and  institutions  of  England)  should 


12  CONSU1AR  EXPERIENCES. 

fairly  represent  the  American  taste  in  the  fine  arts,  and 
because  these  decorations  reminded  me  so  delightfully  of 
an  old-fashioned  American  barber's  shop. 

One  truly  English  object  was  a  barometer  hanging  on 
the  wall,  generally  indicating  one  or  another  degree  of 
disagreeable  weather,  and  so  seldom  pointing  to  Fair, 
that  I  began  to  consider  that  portion  of  its  circle  as  made 
superfluously.  The  deep  chimney,  with  its  grate  of  bitu 
minous  coal,  was  English  too,  as  was  also  the  chill  tem 
perature  that  sometimes  called  for  a  fire  at  mid-summer, 
and  the  foggy  or  smoky  atmosphere  which  often,  between 
November  and  March,  compelled  me  to  set  the  gas 
aflame  at  noonday.  I  am  not  aware  of  omitting  any 
thing  important  in  the  above  descriptive  inventory,  un 
less  it  be  some  bookshelves  filled  with  octavo  volumes 
of  the  American  Statutes,  and  a  good  many  pigeon-holes 
stuffed  with  dusty  communications  from  former  Secreta 
ries  of  State,  and  other  official  documents  of  similar  value, 
constituting  part  of  the  archives  of  the  Consulate,  which 
I  might  have  done  my  successor  a  favor  by  flinging  into 
the  coal-grate.  Yes  ;  there  was  one  other  article  demand 
ing  prominent  notice :  the  consular  copy  of  the  New 
Testament,  bound  in  black  morocco,  and  greasy,  I  fear, 
with  a  daily  succession  of  perjured  kisses  ;  at  least,  I  can 
hardly  hope  that  all  the  ten  thousand  oaths,  administered 
by  me  between  two  breaths,  to  all  sorts  of  people  and  01 
all  manner  of  worldly  business,  were  reckoned  by  the 
swearer  as  if  taken  at  his  soul's  peril. 

Such,  in  short,  was  the  dusky  and  stifled  chamber  in 
which  I  spent  wearily  a  considerable  portion  of  more 
than  four  good  years  of  my  existence.  At  first,  to  be 
quite  frank  with  the  reader,  I  looked  upon  it  as  nc  ^to 


CONSULAR  EXPEDIENCES.  13 

gether  fit  to  be  tenanted  by  the  commercial  representative 
of  so  great  and  prosperous  a  country  as  the  United  States 
then  were ;  and  I  should  speedily  have  transferred  my 
headquarters  to  airier  and  loftier  apartments,  except  for 
the  prudent  consideration  that  my  Government  would 
have  left  me  thus  to  support  its  dignity  at  my  own  per 
sonal  expense.  Besides,  a  long  line  of  distinguished  pred 
ecessors,  of  whom  the  latest  is  now  a  gallant  general 
under  the  Union  banner,  had  found  the  locality  good 
enough  for  them ;  it  might  certainly  be  tolerated,  there 
fore,  by  an  individual  so  little  ambitious  of  external  mag 
nificence  as  myself.  So  I  settled  quietly  down,  striking 
some  of  my  roots  into  such  soil  as  I  could  find,  adapting 
myself  to  circumstances,  and  with  so  much  success,  that, 
though  from  first  to  last  I  hi\ted  the  very  sight  of  the 
little  room,  I  should  yet  have  felt  a  singular  kind  of  re 
luctance  in  changing  it  for  a  better. 

Hither,  in  the  course  of  my  incumbency,  came  a  great 
variety  of  visitors,  principally  Americans,  but  including 
almost  every  other  nationality  on  earth,  especially  the 
distressed  and  downfallen  ones  like  those  of  Poland  and 
Hungary.  Italian  bandits  (for  so  they  looked),  pro- 
Bcribed  conspirators  from  Old  Spain,  Spanish  Ameri 
cans,  Cubans  who  professed  to  have  stood  by  Lopez 
and  narrowly  escaped  his  fate,  scarred  French  soldiers 
of  the  Second  Republic,  —  in  a  word,  all  sufferers,  or  pre 
tended  ones,  in  the  cause  of  Liberty,  all  people  homeless 
in  the  widest  sense,  those  who  never  had  a  country  or 
had  lost  it,  those  whom  their  native  land  had  impatiently 
Hung  off  for  planning  a  better  system  of  things  than  they 
were  born  to,  — a  multitude  of  these,  and,  doubtless,  a*v 
equal  numtar  of  jail-birds,  outwardJv  ot  the  same  feathu 


14  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

Bought  the  American  Consulate,  in  hopes  of  at  /ast 
a  bit  of  bread,  and,  perhaps,  to  beg  a  passage  tx.  tne 
blessed  shores  of  Freedom.  In  most  cases  there  was 
nothing,  and  in  any  case  distressingly  little,  to  be  done 
for  them ;  neither  was  I  of  a  proselyting  disposition,  nor 
desired  to  make  my  Consulate  a  nucleus  for  the  vagrant 
discontents  of  other  lands.  And  yet  it  was  a  proud 
thought,  a  forcible  appeal  to  the  sympathies  of  an  Amer 
ican,  that  these  unfortunates  claimed  the  privileges  of 
citizenship  in  our  Republic  on  the  strength  of  the  very 
same  noble  misdemeanors  that  had  rendered  them  out 
laws  to  their  native  despotisms.  So  I  gave  them  what 
small  help  I  could.  Methinks  the  true  patriots  and  mar 
tyr-spirits  of  the  whole  world  should  have  been  conscious 
of  a  pang  near  the  heart,  when  a  deadly  blow  was  aimed 
at  the  vitality  of  a  country  which  they  have  felt  to  be 
their  own  in  the  last  resort. 

As  for  my  countrymen,  I  grew  better  acquainted  with 
many  of  our  national  characteristics  during  those  four 
years  than  in  all  my  preceding  life.  Whether  brought 
more  strikingly  out  by  the  contrast  with  English  man 
ners,  or  that  my  Yankee  friends  assumed  an  extra  pecu 
liarity  from  a  sense  of  defiant  patriotism,  so  it  was  that 
their  tones,  sentiments,  and  behavior,  even  their  figures 
and  cast  of  countenance,  all  seemed  chiselled  in  sharper 
angles  than  ever  I  had  imagined  them  to  be  at  home. 
It  impressed  me  with  an  odd  idea  of  having  somehow 
lost  the  property  of  my  own  person,  when  I  occasionally 
heard  one  of  them  speaking  of  me  as  "  my  Consul ! " 
They  often  came  to  the  Consulate  in  parties  of  half  a 
dozen  or  more,  on  no  business  whatever,  but  merely  to 
subject  their  public  servant  to  a  rigid  examination,  and 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  15 

see  how  he  was  getting  on  with  his  duties.  These  inter 
views  were  rather  formidable,  being  characterized  by  a 
certain  stiffness  which  I  felt  to  be  sufficiently  irksome  at 
the  moment,  though  it  looks  laughable  enough  in  the 
retrospect.  It  is  my  firm  belief  that  these  fellow-citizens, 
possessing  a  native  tendency  to  organization,  generally 
halted  outside  of  the  door  to  elect  a  speaker,  chairman, 
or  moderator,  and  thus  approached  me  with  all  the  for 
malities  of  a  deputation  from  the  American  people.  After 
salutations  on  both  sides,  —  abrupt,  awful,  and  severe  on 
their  part,  and  deprecatory  on  mine, —  and  the  national 
ceremony  of  shaking  hands  being  duly  gone  through 
with,  the  interview  proceeded  by  a  series  of  calm  and 
well-considered  questions  or  remarks  from  the  spokes 
man,  (no  other  of  the  guests  vouchsafing  to  utter  a 
word,)  and  diplomatic  responses  from  the  Consul,  who 
sometimes  found  the  investigation  a  little  more  searching 
than  he  liked.  I  flatter  myself,  however,  that,  by  much 
practice,  I  attained  considerable  skill  in  this  kind  of 
intercourse,  the  art  of  which  lies  in  passing  off  common 
places  for  new  and  valuable  truths,  and  talking  trash 
and  emptiness  in  such  a  way  that  a  pretty  acute  auditor 
might  mistake  it  for  something  solid.  If  there  be  any 
better  method  of  dealing  with  such  junctures,  —  when 
talk  is  to  be  created  out  of  nothing,  and  within  the  scope 
of  several  minds  at  once,  so  that  you  cannot  apply  your 
self  to  your  interlocutor's  individuality,  —  I  have  not 
learned  it. 

Sitting,  as  it  were,  in  the  gateway  between  the  old 
world  and  the  new,  where  the  steamers  and  packets 
landed  the  greater  part  of  our  wandering  countrymen, 
and  received  them  again  when  their  wanderings  were 


16  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

done,  I  saw  that  no  people  on  earth  have  such  vagabond 
habits  as  ourselves.  The  Continental  races  never  travel 
at  all,  if  they  can  help  it ;  nor  does  an  Englishman  ever 
think  of  stirring  abroad,  unless  he  has  the  money  to  spare, 
or  proposes  to  himself  some  definite  advantage  from  the 
journey;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  nothing  was  more 
common  than  for  a  young  American  deliberately  to  spend 
nil  his  resources  in  an  aesthetic  peregrination  about  Eu 
rope,  returning  with  pockets  nearly  empty  to  begin  the 
world  in  earnest.  It  happened,  indeed,  much  oftener 
than  was  at  all  agreeable  to  myself,  that  their  funds  held 
out  just  long  enough  to  bring  them  to  the  door  of  my 
Consulate,  where  they  entered  as  if  with  an  undeniable 
right  to  its  shelter  and  protection,  and  required  at  my 
hands  to  be  sent  home  again.  In  my  first  simplicity,  — 
finding  them  gentlemanly  in  manners,  passably  educated, 
and  only  tempted  a  little  beyond  their  means  by  a  laud 
able  desire  of  improving  and  refining  themselves,  or, 
perhaps,  for  the  sake  of  getting  better  artistic  instruction 
in  music,  painting,  or  sculpture,  than  our  country  could 
supply,  —  I  sometimes  took  charge  of  them  on  my  pri 
vate  responsibility,  since  our  Government  gives  itself  no 
trouble  about  its  stray  children,  except  the  seafaring 
class.  But,  after  a  few  such  experiments,  discovering 
that  none  of  these  estimable  and  ingenuous  young  men, 
however  trustworthy  they  might  appear,  ever  dreamed 
of  reimbursing  the  Consul,  I  deemed  it  expedient  to  take 
another  course  with  them.  Applying  myself  to  some 
friendly  shipmaster,  I  engaged  homeward  passages  on 
their  behalf,  with  the  understanding  that  they  were  to 
make  themselves  serviceable  on  shipboard ;  and  I  re 
member  several  very  pathetic  appeals  from  painters  and 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  17 

musicians,  touching  the  damage  which  their  artistic  fin 
gers  were  likely  to  incur  from  handling  the  ropes.  But 
my  observation  of  so  many  heavier  troubles  left  me  very 
litile  tenderness  for  their  finger-ends.  In  time,  I  grew 
to  be  reasonably  hard-hearted,  though  it  never  was  quite 
possible  to  leave  a  countryman  with  no  shelter  save  an 
English  poor-house,  when,  as  he  invariably  averred,  he 
had  only  to  set  foot  on  his  native  soil  to  be  possessed  of 
ample  funds.  It  was  my  ultimate  conclusion,  however, 
that  American  ingenuity  may  be  pretty  safely  left  to 
itself,  and  that,  one  way  or  another,  a  Yankee  vagabond 
is  certain  to  turn  up  at  his  own  threshold,  if  he  has  any, 
without  help  of  a  consul,  and  perhaps  be  taught  a  lesson 
of  foresight  that  may  profit  him  hereafter. 

Among  these  stray  Americans,  I  met  with  no  other 
case  so  remarkable  as  that  of  an  old  man,  who  was  in  the 
habit  of  visiting  me  once  in  a  few  months,  and  soberly 
affirmed  that  he  had  been  wandering  about  England  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  (precisely  twenty-seven 
years,  1  think,)  and  all  the  while  doing  his  utmost  to  get 
home  again.  Herman  Melville,  in  his  excellent  novel  or 
biography  ol'  "  Israel  Potter,"  has  an  idea  somewhat  sim 
ilar  to  this.  The  individual  now  in  question  was  a  mild 
and  patient,  but  very  ragged  and  pitiable  old  fellow, 
shabby  beyond  description,  lean  and  hungry-looking,  but 
with  a  large  and  somewhat  red  nose.  He  made  no  com 
plaint  of  his  ill-fortune,  but  only  repeated  in  a  quiet  voice, 
with  a  pathos  of  which  he  was  himself  evidently  uncon 
scious,  —  "I  want  to  get  home  to  Ninety-second  Street, 
Philadelphia."  He  described  himself  as  a  printer  by 
trade,  and  said  that  he  had  come  over  when  he  was  a 
younger  man,  in  the  hope  of  bettering  himself,  and  for 
2 


18  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

the  sake  of  seeing  the  Old  Country,  but  had  never  since 
been  rich  enough  to  pay  his  homeward  passage.  Hia 
manner  and  accent  did  not  quite  convince  me  that  he 
was  an  American,  and  I  told  him  so ;  but  he  steadfastly 
affirmed,  —  "  Sir,  I  was  born  and  have  lived  in  Ninety- 
second  Street,  Philadelphia,"  and  then  went  on  to  describe 
some  public  edifices  and  other  local  objects  with  which 
he  used  to  be  familiar,  adding,  with  a  simplicity  that 
touched  me  very  closely,  "  Sir,  I  had  rather  be  there 
than  here ! "  Though  I  still  manifested  a  lingering 
doubt,  he  took  no  offence,  replying  with  the  same  mild 
depression  as  at  first,  and  insisting  again  and  again  on 
Ninety-second  Street.  Up  to  the  time  when  I  saw  him, 
he  still  got  a  little  occasional  job-work  at  his  trade,  but 
subsisted  mainly  on  such  charity  as  he  met  with  in  his 
wanderings,  shifting  from  place  to  place  continually, 
and  asking  assistance  to  convey  him  to  his  native  land. 
Possibly  he  was  an  impostor,  one  of  the  multitudinous 
shapes  of  English  vagabondism,  and  told  his  falsehood 
with  such  powerful  simplicity,  because,  by  many  repeti 
tions,  he  had  convinced  himself  of  its  truth.  But  if,  as 
I  believe,  the  tale  was  fact,  how  very  strange  and  sad 
was  this  old  man's  fate !  Homeless  on  a  foreign  shore, 
looking  always  towards  his  country,  coming  again  and 
again  to  the  point  whence  so  many  were  setting  sail  for 
it,  —  so  many  who  would  soon  tread  in  Ninety-second 
Street,  —  losing,  in  this  long  series  of  years,  some  of 
the  distinctive  characteristics  of  an  American,  and  at 
last  dying  and  surrendering  his  clay  to  be  a  portion  of 
the  soil  whence  he  could  not  escape  in  his  lifetime. 

Pie  appeared  to  see  that  he  had  moved  me,  but  did 
not  attempt  to  press  his  advantage  with  any  new  argu 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  19 

inent,  or  any  varied  form  of  entreaty.  He  had  bat 
scanty  and  scattered  thoughts  in  his  gray  head,  and  in 
the  intervals  of  those,  like  the  refrain  of  an  old  ballad, 
came  in  the  monotonous  burden  of  his  appeal,  —  "If 
I  could  only  find  myself  in  Ninety-second  Street,  Phila 
delphia  ! "  But  even  his  desire  of  getting  home  had 
ceased  to  be  an  ardent  one,  (if,  indeed,  it  had  not  al 
ways  partaken  of  the  dreamy  sluggishness  of  his  char 
acter,)  although  it  remained  his  only  locomotive  impulse, 
and  perhaps  the  sole  principle  of  life  that  kept  his  blood 
from  actual  torpor. 

The  poor  old  fellow's  story  seemed  to  me  almost  as 
worthy  of  being  chanted  in  immortal  song  as  that  of 
Odysseus  or  Evangeline.  I  took  his  case  into  deep  con 
sideration,  but  dared  not  incur  the  moral  responsibility  of 
sending  him  across  the  sea,  at  his  age,  after  so  many 
years  of  exile,  when  the  very  tradition  of  him  had  passed 
away,  to  find  his  friends  dead,  or  forgetful,  or  irretriev 
ably  vanished,  and  the  whole  country  become  more  truly 
a  foreign  land  to  liim  than  England  was  now,  —  and  even 
Ninety-second  Street,  in  the  weedlike  decay  and  growth 
of  our  localities,  made  over  anew  and  grown  unrecogniz 
able  by  his  old  eyes.  That  street,  so  patiently  longed 
for,  had  transferred  itself  to  the  New  Jerusalem,  and  he 
must  seek  it  there,  contenting  his  slow  heart,  mean 
while,  with  the  smoke-begrimed  thoroughfares  of  English 
towns,  or  the  green  country  lanes  and  by-paths  with  which 
his  wanderings  had  made  him  familiar ;  for  doubtless  ho 
had  a  beaten  track  and  was  the  "long-remembered  beggar" 
now,  with  food  and  a  roughly  hospitable  greeting  ready 
for  him  at  many  a  farm-house  door,  and  his  choice  of 
'odging  under  a  score  of  haystacks.  In  America,  nctl> 


20  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

ing  awaited  him  but  that  worst  form  of  disappointment 
which  comes  under  the  guise  of  a  long-cherished  and  late- 
accomplished  purpose,  and  then  a  year  or  two  of  dry  and 
barren  sojourn  in  an  almshouse,  and  death  among  stran 
gers  at  last,  where  he  had  imagined  a  circle  of  familiar 
faces.  So  I  contented  myself  with  giving  him  alms, 
which  he  thankfully  accepted,  and  went  away  with  bent 
shoulders  and  an  .aspect  of  gentle  forlornness ;  returning 
upon  his  orbit,  however,  after  a  few  months,  to  tell  the 
same  sad  and  quiet  story  of  his  abode  in  England  for 
more  than  twenty-seven  years,  in  all  which  time  he  had 
been  endeavoring,  and  still  endeavored  as  patiently  as 
ever,  to  find  his  way  home  to  Ninety-second  Street, 
Philadelphia. 

I  recollect  another  case,  of  a  more  ridiculous  order, 
but  still  with  a  foolish  kind  of  pathos  entangled  in  it, 
which  impresses  me  now  more  forcibly  than  it  did  at  the 
moment.  One  day,  a  queer,  stupid,  good-natured,  fat- 
faced  individual  came  into  my  private  room,  dressed  in 
a  sky-blue,  cut-away  coat  and  mixed  trousers,  both  gar 
ments  worn  and  shabby,  and  rather  too  small  for  his 
overgrown  bulk.  After  a  little  preliminary  talk,  he 
turned  out  to  be  a  country  shopkeeper,  (from  Connecti 
cut,  I  think,)  who  had  left  a  nourishing  business,  and 
come  over  to  England  purposely  and  solely  to  have  an 
interview  with  the  Queen.  Some  years  before  he  had 
named  his  two  children,  one  for  Her  Majesty  and  the 
other  for  Prince  Albert,  and  had  transmitted  photographs 
of  the  little  people,  as  well  as  of  his  wife  and  himself,  to 
the  illustrious  godmother.  The  Queen  had  gratefully 
acknowledged  the  favor  in  a  letter  under  the  hand  of 
her  private  secretary.  Nov^  th «  sto  opkeeper,  like  a  greal 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  21 

many  other  Americans,  had  long  cherished  a  fantastic 
notion  that  he  was  one  of  the  rightful  heirs  of  a  rich 
English  estate ;  and  on  the  strength  of  Her  Majesty's 
letter  and  the  hopes  of  royal  patronage  which  it  inspired, 
he  had  shut  up  his  little  country-store  and  come  over  to 
claim  his  inheritance.  On  the  voyage,  a  German  fellow- 
passenger  had  relieved  him  of  his  money  on  pretence  of 
getting  it  favorably  exchanged,  and  had  disappeared  im 
mediately  on  the  ship's  arrival ;  so  that  the  poor  fellow 
was  compelled  to  pawn  all  his  clothes  except  the  remark 
ably  shabby  ones  in  which  I  beheld  him,  and  in  which 
(as  he  himself  hinted,  with  a  melancholy,  yet  good- 
natured  smile)  he  did  not  look  altogether  fit  to  see  the 
Queen.  I  agreed  with  him  that  the  bobtailed  coat  and 
mixed  trousers  constituted  a  very  odd-looking  court-dress, 
and  suggested  that  it  was  doubtless  his  present  purpose 
to  get  back  to  Connecticut  as  fast  as  possible.  But  no  ! 
The  resolve  to  see  the  Queen  was  as  strong  in  him  as 
ever ;  and  it  was  marvellous  the  pertinacity  with  which 
he  clung  to  it  amid  raggedness  and  starvation,  and  the 
earnestness  of  his  supplication  that  I  would  supply  him 
with  funds  for  a  suitable  appearance  at  Windsor  Castle. 
I  never  had  so  satisfactory  a  perception  of  a  complete 
Looby  before  in  my  life  ;  and  it  caused  me  to  feel  kindly 
towards  him,  and  yet  impatient  and  exasperated  on  be 
half  of  common  sense,  which  could  not  possibly  tolerate 
that  such  an  unimaginable  donkey  should  exist.  I  laid 
his  absurdity  before  him  in  the  very  plainest  terms,  but 
without  either  exciting  his  anger  or  shaking  his  resolu 
tion.  u  Oh,  my  dear  man,"  quoth  he,  with  good-natured 
placid,  simple,  and  tearful  stubbornness,  "  if  you  could  but 
enter  into  my  feelings  and  see  the  matter  from  beginning 


22  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

to  end  as  I  see  it !  "  To  confess  the  truth,  I  have  since 
felt  that  I  was  hard-hearted  to  the  poor  simpleton,  and 
that  there  was  more  weight  in  his  remonstrance  thnn  T 
chose  to  be  sensible  of,  at  the  time  ;  for,  like  many  men 
who  have  been  in  the  habit  of  making  playthings  or  tools 
of  their  imagination  and  sensibility,  I  was  too  rigidly 
tenacious  of  what  was  reasonable  in  the  affairs  of  real 
life.  And  even  absurdity  has  its  rights,  when,  as  in  this 
case,  it  has  absorbed  a  human  being's  entire  nature  and 
purposes.  I  ought  to  have  transmitted  him  to  Mr. 
Buchanan,  in  London,  who,  being  a  good-natured  old 
gentleman,  and  anxious,  just  then,  to  gratify  the  univer 
sal  Yankee  nation,  might,  for  the  joke's  sake,  have  got 
him  admittance  to  the  Queen,  who  had  fairly  laid  herself 
open  to  his  visit,  and  has  received  hundreds  of  our  coun 
trymen  on  infinitely  slighter  grounds.  But  I  was  inex 
orable,  being  turned  to  flint  by  the  insufferable  proximity 
of  a  fool,  and  refused  to  interfere  with  his  business  in 
any  way  except  to  procure  him  a  passage  home.  I  can 
see  his  face  of  mild,  ridiculous  despair,  at  this  moment, 
and  appreciate,  better  than  I  could  then,  how  awfully 
cruel  he  must  have  felt  my  obduracy  to  be.  For  years 
and  years,  the  idea  of  an  interview  with  Queen  Victoria 
had  haunted  his  poor  foolish  mind ;  and  now,  when  he 
really  stood  on  English  ground,  and  the  palace-door  was 
hanging  ajar  for  him,  he  was  expected  to  turn  back,  a 
pennyless  and  bamboozled  simpleton,  merely  because  an 
iron-hearted  consul  refused  to  lend  him  thirty  shillings 
(so  low  had  his  demand  ultimately  sunk)  to  buy  a  second- 
class  ticket  on  the  rail  for  London  ! 

He  visited   the    Consulate  several   times   afterwards, 
subsisting  on  a  pittance  that  I  allowed  him  ir  the  hope 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  23 

of  gradually  starving  him  back  to  Connecticut,  assailing 
me  with  the  old  petition  at  every  opportunity,  looking 
shabbier  at  every  visit,  but  still  thoroughly  good-tem 
pered,  mildly  stubborn,  and  smiling  through  his  tears 
not  without  a  perception  of  the  ludicrousness  of  his  own 
position.  Finally,  he  disappeared  altogether,  and  whither 
he  had  wandered,  and  whether  he  ever  saw  the  Queen 
or  wasted  quite  away  in  the  endeavor,  I  never  knew ; 
but  I  remember  unfolding  the  "  Times,"  about  that  period, 
\vith  a  daily  dread  of  reading  an  account  of  a  ragged 
Yankee's  attempt  to  steal  into  Buckingham  Palace,  and 
how  he  smiled  tearfully  at  his  captors  and  besought  them 
to  introduce  him  to  Her  Majesty.  I  submit  to  Mr.  Sec 
retary  Seward  that  he  ought  to  make  diplomatic  remon 
strances  to  the  British  Ministry,  and  require  them  to  take 
such  order  that  the  Queen  shall  not  any  longer  bewilder 
the  wits  of  our  poor  compatriots  by  responding  to  their 
epistles  and  thanking  them  for  their  photographs. 

One  circumstance  in  the  foregoing  incident  —  I  mean 
the  unhappy  storekeeper's  notion  of  establishing  his  claim 
to  an  English  estate  —  was  common  to  a  great  many 
other  applications,  personal  or  by  letter,  with  which  I 
was  favored  by  my  countrymen.  The  cause  of  this  pe 
culiar  insanity  lies  deep  in  the  Anglo-American  heart. 
After  all  these  bloody  wars  and  vindictive  animosities, 
we  have  still  an  unspeakable  yearning  towards  England. 
"When  our  forefathers  left  the  old  home,  they  pulled  up 
many  of  their  roots,  but  trailed  along  with  them  others, 
which  were  never  snapt  asunder  by  the  tug  of  such  a 
lengthening  distance,  nor  have  been  torn  out  of  the  orig 
inal  soil  by  jthe  violence  of  subsequent  struggles,  nor  sev 
ered  ty  the  edge  of  the  sword.  Even  so  late  as  these 


24  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

days,  they  remain  entangled  with  our  heart-strings,  and 
might  often  have  influenced  our  national  cause  like  the 
tiller-ropes  of  a  ship,  if  the  rough  gripe  of  England  had 
been  capable  of  managing  so  sensitive  a  kind  of  t  machin 
ery.  It  has  required  nothing  less  than  the  boorishness, 
the  stolidity,  the  self-sufficiency,  the  contemptuous  jeal 
ousy,  the  half-sagacity,  invariably  blind  of  one  eye  and 
often  distorted  of  the  other,  that  characterize  this  strange 
people,  to  compel  us  to  be  a  great  nation  in  our  own 
right,  instead  of  continuing  virtually,  if  not  in  name,  a 
province  of  their  small  island.  What  pains  did  they  take 
to  shake  us  off,  and  have  ever  since  taken  to  keep  us 
wide  apart  from  them !  It  might  seem  their  folly,  but 
was  really  their  fate,  or,  rather,  the  Providence  of  God, 
who  has  doubtless  a  work  for  us  to  do,  in  which  the  mas 
sive  materiality  of  the  English  character  would  have 
been  too  ponderous  a  dead-weight  upon  our  progress. 
And,  besides,  if  England  had  been  wise  enough  to  twine 
our  new  vigor  round  about  her  ancient  strength,  her 
power  would  have  been  too  firmly  established  ever  to 
yield,  in  its  due  season,  to  the  otherwise  immutable  law 
of  imperial  vicissitude.  The  earth  might  then  have 
beheld  the  intolerable  spectacle  of  a  sovereignty  and 
institutions,  imperfect,  but  indestructible. 

Nationally,  there  has  ceased  to  be  any  peril  of  so  inaus 
picious  and  yet  outwardly  attractive  an  amalgamation 
But  as  an  individual,  the  American  is  often  conscious  of 
the  deep-rooted  sympathies  that  belong  more  fitly  to  times 
gone  by,  and  feels  a  blind,  pathetic  tendency  to  wander 
back  again,  which  makes  itself  evident  in  such  wild 
dreams  as  I  have  alluded  to  above,  about  English  inher 
itances.  A  mere  coincidence  of  names,  (the  Yankee 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  25 

one,  perhaps,  having  been  assumed  by  legislative  per 
mission,)  a  supposititious  pedigree,  a  silver  mug  on  which 
an  anciently  engraved  coat-of-arms  has  been  half  scrubbed 
outj,  a  seal  with  an  uncertain  crest,  an  old  yellow  letter  or 
document  in  faded  ink,  the  more  scantily  legible  the  bet 
ter,  —  rubbish  of  this  kind,  found  in  a  neglected  drawer, 
has  been  potent  enough  to  turn  the  brain  of  many  an 
honest  Republican,  especially  if  assisted  by  an  advertise 
ment  for  lost  heirs,  cut  out  of  a  British  newspaper. 
There  is  no  estimating  or  believing,  till  we  come  into  a 
position  to  know  it,  what  foolery  lurks  latent  in  the 
breasts  of  very  sensible  people.  Remembering  such 
sober  extravagances,  I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised 
to  find  that  I  am  myself  guilty  of  some  unsuspected 
absurdity,  that  may  appear  to  me  the  most  substantial 
trait  in  my  character. 

I  might  fill  many  pages  with  instances  of  this  diseased 
American  appetite  for  English  soil.  A  respectable-look 
ing  woman,  well  advanced  in  life,  of  sour  aspect,  exceed 
ingly  homely,  but  decidedly  New  Englandish  in  figure 
and  manners,  came  to  my  office  with  a  great  bundle  of 
documents,  at  the  very  first  glimpse  of  which  I  appre 
hended  something  terrible.  Nor  was  I  mistaken.  The 
bundle  contained  evidences  of  her  indubitable  claim  to 
the  site  on  which  Castle  Street,  the  Town  Hall,  the  Ex 
change,  and  all  the  principal  business  part  of  Liverpool, 
have  long  been  situated ;  and  with  considerable  peremp- 
toriness,  the  good  lady  signified  her  expectation  that  I 
should  take  charge  of  her  suit,  and  prosecute  it  to  judg 
ment  ;  not,  however,  on  the  equitable  condition  of  receiv 
ing  half  the  value  of  the  property  recovered,  (which,  in 
case  of  complete  success,  would  have  made  both  of  us  ten 


26  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

or  twenty-fold  millionnaires,)  but  without  recompense  or 
reimbursement  of  legal  expenses,  solely  as  an  incident  ot 
my  official  duty.  Another  time  came  two  ladies,  bearing 
a  letter  of  emphatic  introduction  from  his  Excellency  the 
Governor  of  their  native  State,  who  testified  in  most 
satisfactory  terms  to  their  social  respectability.  They 
were  claimants  of  a  great  estate  in  Cheshire,  and 
announced  themselves  as  blood-relatives  of  Queen  Vic 
toria,  —  a  point,  however,  which  they  deemed  it  expe 
dient  to  keep  in  the  background  until  their  territorial 
rights  should  be  established,  apprehending  that  the  Lord 
High  Chancellor  might  otherwise  be  less  likely  to  come 
to  a  fair  decision  in  respect  to  them,  from  a  probable  dis 
inclination  to  admit  new  members  into  the  royal  kin. 
Upon  my  honor,  I  imagine  that  they  had  an  eye  to  the 
possibility  of  the  eventual  succession  of  one  or  both  of 
them  to  the  crown  of  Great  Britain  through  superior 
ity  of  title  over  the  Brunswick  line;  although,  being 
maiden  ladies,  like  their  predecessor  Elizabeth,  they 
could  hardly  have  hoped  to  establish  a  lasting  dynasty 
upon  the  throne.  It  proves,  I  trust,  a  certain  disinter 
estedness  on  my  part,  that,  encountering  them  thus  in  the 
dawn  of  their  fortunes,  I  forbore  to  put  in  a  plea  for  a 
future  dukedom. 

Another  visitor  of  the  same  class  was  a  gentleman  of 
refined  manners,  handsome  figure,  and  remarkably  intel 
lectual  aspect.  Like  many  men  of  an  adventurous  cast, 
he  had  so  quiet  a  deportment,  and  such  an  apparent  dis 
inclination  to  general  sociability,  that  you  would  have 
fancied  him  moving  always  along  some  peaceful  and 
secluded  walk  of  life.  Yet,  literally  from  his  first  hour, 
he  had  been  tossed  upon  the  surges  of  a  most  varied  and 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  27 

tumultuous  existence,  having  been  born  at  sea,  of  Amer 
ican  parentage,  but  on  board  of  a  Spanish  vessel,  and 
spending  many  of  the  subsequent  years  in  voyages,  trav 
els,  and  outlandish  incidents  and  vicissitudes,  which, 
methought,  had  hardly  been  paralleled  since  the  days  of 
Gulliver  or  De  Foe.  When  his  dignified  reserve  was 
overcome,  he  had  the  faculty  of  narrating  these  adven 
tures  with  wonderful  eloquence,  working  up  his  descrip 
tive  sketches  with  such  intuitive  perception  of  the 
picturesque  points  that  the  whole  was  thrown  forward 
with  a  positively  illusive  effect,  like  matters  of  your  own 
visual  experience.  In  fact,  they  were  so  admirably  done 
that  I  could  never  more  than  half  believe  them,  because 
the  genuine  affairs  of  life  are  not  apt  to  transact  them 
selves  so  artistically.  Many  of  his  scenes  were  laid  in 
the  East,  and  among  those  seldom  visited  archipelagoes 
of  the  Indian  Ocean,  so  that  there  was  an  Oriental  fra 
grance  breathing  through  his  talk  and  an  odor  of  the 
Spice  Islands  still  lingering  in  his  garments.  He  had 
much  to  say  of  the  delightful  qualities  of  the  Malay 
pirates,  who,  indeed,  carry  on  a  predatory  warfare  against 
the  ships  of  all  civilized  nations,  and  cut  every  Christian 
throat  among  their  prisoners ;  but  (except  for  deeds  of 
that  character,  which  are  the  rule  and  habit  of  their  life, 
and  matter  of  religion  and  conscience  with  them,)  they 
are  a  gentle-natured  people,  of  primitive  innocence  aiu1 
integrity. 

But  his  best  story  was  about  a  race  of  men,  (if  men 
they  were,)  who  seemed  so  fully  to  realize  Swift's 
wicked  fable  of  the  Yahoos,  that  my  friend  was  much 
exercised  with  psychological  speculations  whether  or  no 
they  had  any  souls.  They  dwelt  in  the  wilds  of  Ceylon, 


28  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

like  other  savage  beasts,  hairy,  and  spotted  with  tufts  of 
fur,  filthy,  shameless,  weaponless,  (though  warlike  in 
their  individual  bent,)  tool-less,  houseless,  language-less, 
except  for  a  few  guttural  sounds,  hideously  dissonant, 
whereby  they  held  some  rudest  kind  of  communication 
among  themselves.  They  lacked  both  memory  and  fore- 
eight,  and  were  wholly  destitute  of  government,  social 
institutions,  or  law  or  rulership  of  any  description,  except 
the  immediate  tyranny  of  the  strongest ;  radically  un 
tamable,  moreover,  save  that  the  people  of  the  country 
managed  to  subject  a  few  of  the  less  ferocious  and  stupid 
ones  to  out-door  servitude  among  their  other  cattle. 
They  were  beastly  in  almost  all  their  attributes,  and  that 
to  such  a  degree  that  the  observer,  losing  sight  of  any 
\ink  betwixt  them  and  manhood,  could  generally  witness 
|heir  brutalities  without  greater  horror  than  at  those  of 
some  disagreeable  quadruped  in  a  menagerie.  And  yet, 
at  times,  comparing  what  were  the  lowest  general  traits 
in  his  own  race,  with  what  was  highest  in  these  abomi 
nable  monsters,  he  found  a  ghastly  similitude  that  half 
compelled  him  to  recognize  them  as  human  brethren. 

After  these  Gulliverian  researches,  my  agreeable  ac 
quaintance  had  fallen  under  the  ban  of  the  Dutch  gov 
ernment,  and  had  suffered  (this,  at  least,  being  matter 
of  fact)  nearly  two  years'  imprisonment  with  confiscation 
of  a  large  amount  of  property,  for  which  Mr.  Belmont, 
our  minister  at  the  Hague,  had  just  made  a  peremptory 
demand  of  reimbursement  and  damages.  Meanwhile, 
since  arriving  in  England  on  his  way  to  the  United 
States,  he  had  been  providentially  led  to  inquire  into  the 
circumstances  of  his  birth  on  shipboard,  and  had  discov 
ered  that  not  himself  alone,  but  another  baby,  had  come 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  29 

into  the  \\rorld  during  the  same  voyage  of  the  proliiic  ves 
sel,  and  that  there  were  almost  irrefragable  reasons  for 
believing  that  these  two  children  had  been  assigned  to 
the  wrong  mothers.  Many  reminiscences  of  his  early 
days  confirmed  him  in  the  idea  that  his  nominal  parents 
were  aware  of  the  exchange.  The  family  to  which  he 
felt  authorized  to  attribute  his  lineage  was  that  of  a 
nobleman,  in  the  picture-gallery  of  whose  country-seat 
(whence,  if  I  mistake  not,  our  adventurous  friend  had 
just  returned)  he  had  discovered  a  portrait  bearing  a 
striking  resemblance  to  himself.  As  soon  as  he  should 
have  reported  the  outrageous  action  of  the  Dutch  gov 
ernment  to  President  Pierce  and  the  Secretary  of  State, 
and  recovered  the  confiscated  property,  he  purposed  to 
return  to  England  and  establish  his  claim  to  the  noble 
man's  title  and  estate. 

I  had  accepted  his  Oriental  fantasies,  (which,  indeed,  to 
do  him  justice,  have  been  recorded  by  scientific  societies 
among  the  genuine  phenomena  of  natural  history,)  not 
as  matters  of  indubitable  credence,  but  as  allowable 
specimens  of  an  imaginative  traveller's  vivid  coloring  and 
rich  embroidery  on  the  coarse  texture  and  dull  neutral 
tints  of  truth.  The  English  romance  was  among  the 
latest  communications  that  he  intrusted  to  my  private 
car ;  and  as  soon  as  I  heard  the  first  chapter,  —  so  won 
derfully  akin  to  what  I  might  have  wrought  out  of  my 
own  head,  not  unpractised  in  such  figments,  —  I  began  to 
repent  having  made  myself  responsible  for  the  future 
nobleman's  passage  homeward  in  the  next  Collins 
steamer.  Nevertheless,  should  his  English  rent-roll 
fall  a  little  behindhand,  his  Dutch  claim  for  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  was  certainly  in  the  hands  of  our  gov- 


30  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

ernment,  and  might  at  least  be  valuable  to  the  extent  of 
thirty  pounds,  which  I  had  engaged  to  pay  on  his  behalf. 
But  I  have  reason  to  fear  that  his  Dutch  riches  turned 
out  to  be  Dutch  gilt  or  fairy  gold,  and  his  English  coun 
try-seat  a  mere  castle  in  the  air,  —  which  I  exceedingly 
regret,  for  he  was  a  delightful  companion  and  .1  very 
gentlemanly  man. 

A  Consul,  in  his  position  of  universal  responsibili  .y, 
the  general  adviser  and  helper,  sometimes  finds  himself 
compelled  to  assume  the  guardianship  of  personages  who, 
in  their  own  sphere,  are  supposed  capable  of  superintend 
ing  the  highest  interests  of  whole  communities.  An 
elderly  Irishman,  a  naturalized  citizen,  once  put  the 
desire  and  expectation  of  all  our  penniless  vagabonds 
into  a  very  suitable  phrase,  by  pathetically  entreating 
me  to  be  a  "  father  to  him ; "  and,  simple  as  I  sit  scrib 
bling  here,  I  have  acted  a  father's  part,  not  only  by 
scores  of  such  unthrifty  old  children  as  himself,  but  by  a 
progeny  of  far  loftier  pretensions.  It  may  be  well  for 
persons  who  are  conscious  of  any  radical  weakness  in 
their  character,  any  besetting  sin,  any  unlawful  propen 
sity,  any  unhallowed  impulse,  which  (while  surrounded 
with  the  manifold  restraints  that  protect  a  man  from  that 
treacherous  and  lifelong  enemy,  his  lower  self,  in  the 
circle  of  society  where  he  is  at  home)  they  may  have 
succeeded  in  keeping  under  the  lock  and  key  of  strides 
propriety,  —  it  may  be  well  for  them,  before  seeking  the 
perilous  freedom  of  a  distant  land,  released  from  the 
watchful  eyes  of  neighborhoods  and  coteries,  lightened  of 
that  wearisome  burden,  an  immaculate  name,  and  bliss 
fully  obscure  after  years  of  local  prominence,  —  it  may 
be  well  for  such  individuals  to  know  that  when  they  set 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  31 

toot  on  a  foreign  shore,  the  long-imprisoned  Evil,  scenting 
a  wild  license  in  the  unaccustomed  atmosphere,  is  apt  to 
grow  riotous  in  its  iron  cage.  It  rattles  the  rusty  bar 
riers  with  gigantic  turbulence,  and  if  there  be  an  infirm 
joint  anywhere  in  the  framework,  it  breaks  madly  forth, 
compressing  the  mischief  of  a  lifetime  into  a  little  space. 

A  parcel  of  letters  had  been  accumulating  at  the  Con 
sulate  for  two  or  three  weeks,  directed  to  a  certain  Doctor 
of  Divinity,  who  had  left  America  by  a  sailing-packet 
and  was  still  upon  the  sea.  In  due  time,  the  vessel 
arrived,  and  the  reverend  Doctor  paid  me  a  visit.  Ho 
was  a  fine-looking  middle-aged  gentleman,  a  perfect  model 
of  clerical  propriety,  scholar-like,  yet  with  the  air  of  a  man 
of  the  world  rather  than  a  student,  though  overspread 
with  the  graceful  sanctity  of  a  popular  metropolitan 
divine,  a  part  of  whose  duty  it  might  be  to  exemplify  the 
natural  accordance  between  Christianity  and  good-breed 
ing.  He  seemed  a  little  excited,  as  an  American  is  apt 
to  be  on  first  arriving  in  England,  but  conversed  with 
intelligence  as  well  as  animation,  making  himself  so 
agreeable  that  his  visit  stood  out  in  considerable  relief 
from  the  monotony  of  my  daily  commonplace.  As  I 
learned  from  authentic  sources,  he  was  somewhat  distin 
guished  in  his  own  region  for  fervor  and  eloquence  in  the 
pulpit,  but  was  now  compelled  to  relinquish  it  temporarily 
lor  the  purpose  of  renovating  his  impaired  health  by  an 
extensive  tour  in  Europe.  Promising  to  dine  with  me, 
he  took  up  his  bundle  of  letters  and  went  away. 

The  Doctor,  however,  failed  to  make  his  appearance  at 
dinner-time,  or  to  apologize  the  next  day  for  his  absence ; 
and  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two  more,  I  forgot  all  about 
him,  concluding  that  he  must  have  set  forth  on  his  con- 


32  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

tinental  travels,  the  plan  of  which  he  had  sketched  out  at 
our  interview.  But,  by  and  by,  I  received  a  call  from 
the  master  of  the  vessel  in  which  he  had  arrived.  He 
was  in  some  alarm  about  his  passenger,  whose  luggago 
remained  on  shipboard,  but  of  whom  nothing  had  been 
heard  or  seen  since  the  moment  of  his  departure  from  the 
Consulate.  We  conferred  together,  the  Captain  and  I, 
about  the  expediency  of  setting  the  police  on  the  traces 
(if  any  were  to  be  found)  of  our  vanished  friend ;  but  it 
struck  me  that  the  good  Captain  was  singularly  reticent, 
and  that  there  was  something  a  little  mysterious  in  a  few 
points  that  he  hinted  at,  rather  than  expressed ;  so  that, 
scrutinizing  the  affair  carefully,  I  surmised  that  the  inti 
macy  of  life  on  shipboard  might  have  taught  him  more 
about  the  reverend  gentleman  than,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  he  deemed  it  prudent  to  reveal.  At  home,  in  our 
native  country,  I  would  have  looked  to  the  Doctor's  per 
sonal  safety  and  left  his  reputation  to  take  care  of  itself, 
knowing  that  the  good  fame  of  a  thousand  saintly  clergy 
men  would  amply  dazzle  out  any  lamentable  spot  on  a 
single  brother's  character.  But  in  scornful  and  invidious 
England,  on  the  idea  that  the  credit  of  the  sacred  oifice 
was  measurably  intrusted  to  my  discretion,  I  could  not 
endure,  for  the  sake  of  American  Doctors  of  Divinity 
generally,  that  this  particular  Doctor  should  cut  an 
ignoble  figure  in  the  police  reports  of  the  English  news 
papers,  except  at  the  last  necessity.  The  clerical  body,  I 
flatter  myself,  will  acknowledge  that  I  acted  on  their  own 
principle.  Besides,  it  was  now  too  late ;  the  mischief 
and  violence,  if  any  had  been  impending,  were  not  of  a 
kind  which  it  requires  the  better  part  of  a  week  to  per 
petrate  ;  and  to  sum  up  the  entire  matter,  I  teit  certain, 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  33 

from  a  good  deal  of  somewhat  similar  experience,  that,  if 
the  missing  Doctor  still  breathed  this  vital  air,  he  would 
turn  up  at  the  Consulate  as  soon  as  his  money  should  be 
stolen  or  spent. 

Precisely  a  week  after  this  reverend  person's  disappear 
ance,  there  came  to  my  office  a  tall,  middle-aged  gentle 
man  in  a  blue  military  surtout,  braided  at  the  seams,  but 
out  at  elbows,  and  as  shabby  as  if  the  wearer  had  been 
bivouacking  in  it  throughout  a  Crimean  campaign.  It 
was  buttoned  up  to  the  very  chin,  except  where  three  or 
four  of  the  buttons  were  lost ;  nor  was  there  any  glimpse 
of  a  white  shirt-collar  illuminating  the  rusty  black  cravat. 
A  grisly  moustache  was  just  beginning  to  roughen  the 
stranger's  upper  lip.  He  looked  disreputable  to  the  last 
degree,  but  still  had  a  ruined  air  of  good  society  glim 
mering  about  him,  like  a  few  specks  of  polish  on  a  sword- 
blade  that  has  lain  corroding  in  a  mud-puddle.  I  took 
him  to  be  some  American  marine  officer,  of  dissipated 
habits,  or  perhaps  a  cashiered  British  major,  stumbling 
into  the  wrong  quarters  through  the  unrectified  bewilder 
ment  of  last  night's  debauch.  He  greeted  me,  however, 
with  polite  familiarity,  as  though  we  had  been  previously 
acquainted ;  whereupon  I  drew  coldly  back  (as  sensible 
people  naturally  do,  whether  from  strangers  or  former 
friends,  when  too  evidently  at  odds  with  fortune)  and  re 
quested  to  know  who  my  visitor  might  be,  and  what  was 
his  business  at  the  Consulate.  "  Am  I  then  so  changed  ?  " 
he  exclaimed  with  a  vast  depth  of  tragic  intonation  ;  and 
after  a  little  blind  and  bewildered  talk,  behold !  the  truth 
flashed  upon  me.  It  was  the  Doctor  of  Divinity !  If  1 
had  meditated  a  scene  or  a  coup  de  theatre,  I  could  not 
have  contrived  a  more  effectual  one  than  by  this  simple 


84  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES 

and  genuine  difficulty  of  recognition.  The  poor  Divine 
must  have  felt  that  he  had  lost  his  personal  identity 
through  the  misadventures  of  one  little  week.  And,  to 
say  the  truth,  he  did  look  as  if,  like  Job,  on  account  of 
his  especial  sanctity,  he  had  been  delivered  over  to  the 
direst  temptations  of  Satan,  and  proving  weaker  than  the 
man  of  Uz,  the  Arch  Enemy  had  been  empowered  to 
drag  him  through  Tophet,  transforming  him,  in  the  pro 
cess,  from  the  most  decorous  of  metropolitan  clergymen 
into  the  rowdiest  and  dirtiest  of  disbanded  officers.  I 
never  fathomed  the  mystery  of  his  military  costume,  but 
conjectured  that  a  lurking  sense  of  fitness  had  induced 
him  to  exchange  his  clerical  garments  for  this  habit  of  a 
sinner ;  nor  can  I  tell  precisely  into  what  pitfall,  not  more 
of  vice  than  terrible  calamity,  he  had  precipitated  him 
self,  —  being  more  than  satisfied  to  know  that  the  out- 
oasts  of  society  can  sink  no  lower  than  this  poor,  de 
secrated  wretch  had  sunk. 

The  opportunity,  I  presume,  does  not  often  happen  to 
a  layman,  of  administering  moral  and  religious  reproof  to 
a  Doctor  of  Divinity;  but  finding  the  occasion  thrust 
upon  me,  and  the  hereditary  Puritan  waxing  strong  in 
my  breast,  I  deemed  it  a  matter  of  conscience  not  to  let 
it  pass  entirely  unimproved.  The  truth  is,  I  was  un 
speakably  shocked  and  disgusted.  Not,  however,  that  I 
was  then  to  learn  that  clergymen  are  made  of  the  same 
llesh  and  blood  as  other  people,  and  perhaps  lack  one 
small  safeguard  which  the  rest  of  us  possess,  because 
they  are  aware  of  their  own  peccability,  and  therefore 
cannot  look  up  to  the  clerical  class  for  the  proof  of  the 
possibility  of  a  pure  life  on  earth,  with  such  reverential 
confidence  as  we  are  prone  to  do.  But  I  remembered 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  35 

the  innocent  faith  of  my  boyhood,  and  the  good  old 
silver-headed  clergyman,  who  seemed  to  me  as  much  a 
saint  then  on  earth  as  he  is  now  in  heaven,  and  partly 
for  whose  sake,  through  all  these  darkening  year*,  I  re 
tain  a  devout,  though  not  intact  nor  unwavering  respect 
for  the  entire  fraternity.  What  a  hideous  wrong,  there 
fore,  had  the  backslider  inflicted  on  his  brethren,  and  still 
more  on  me,  who  much  needed  whatever  fragments  of 
broken  reverence  (broken,  not  as  concerned  religion,  but 
its  earthly  institutions  and  professors),  it  might  yet  be 
possible  to  patch  into  a  sacred  image !  Should  all  pul 
pits  and  communion-tables  have  thenceforth  a  stain  upon 
them,  and  the  guilty  one  go  unrebuked  for  it?  So  I 
spoke  to  the  unhappy  man  as  I  never  thought  myself  war 
ranted  in  speaking  to  any  other  mortal,  hitting  him  hard, 
doing  my  utmost  to  find  out  his  vulnerable  part,  and 
prick  him  into  the  depths  of  it.  And  not  without  more 
effect  than  I  had  dreamed  of,  or  desired ! 

No  doubt,  the  novelty  of  the  Doctor's  reversed  position, 
thus  standing  up  to  receive  such  a  fulmination  as  the 
clergy  have  heretofore  arrogated  the  exclusive  right  of 
inflicting,  might  give  additional  weight  and  sting  to  the 
words  which  I  found  utterance  for.  But  there  was 
another  reason  (which,  had  I  in  the  least  suspected  it, 
would  have  closed  my  lips  at  once,)  for  his  feeling  mor 
bidly  sensitive  to  the  cruel  rebuke  that  I  administered. 
The  unfortunate  man  had  come  to  me,  laboring  under  one 
of  the  consequences  of  his  riotous  outbreak,  in  the  shape 
nf  delirium  tremens ;  he  bore  a  hell  within  the  compass  of 
his  own  breast,  all  the  torments  of  which  blazed  up  with 
tenfold  inveteracy  when  I  thus  took  upon  myself  the  devil's 
office  of  stirring  up  the  red-hot  embers.  His  emotions, 


86  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

as  well  as  the  external  movement  and  expression  of  them 
by  voice,  countenance,  and  gesture,  were  terribly  exag 
gerated  by  the  tremendous  vibration  of  nerves  resulting 
from  the  disease.  It  was  the  deepest  tragedy  I  ever  wit 
nessed.  I  know  sufficiently,  from  that  one  experience, 
how  a  condemned  soul  would  manifest  its  agonies ;  and 
for  the  future,  if  I  have  anything  to  do  with  sinners,  I 
mean  to  operate  upon  them  through  sympathy,  and  not 
rebuke.  What  had  I  to  do  with  rebuking  him?  The 
disease,  long  latent  in  his  heart,  had  shown  itself  in  a 
frightful  eruption  on  the  surface  of  his  life.  That  was 
all !  Is  it  a  thing  to  scold  the  sufferer  for  ? 

To  conclude  this  wretched  story,  the  poor  Doctor  of 
Divinity,  having  been  robbed  of  all  his  money  in  this 
little  airing  beyond  the  limits  of  propriety,  was  easily 
persuaded  to  give  up  the  intended  tour  and  return  to  his 
bereaved  flock,  who,  very  probably,  were  thereafter  con 
scious  of  an  increased  unction  in  his  soul-stirring  elo 
quence,  without  suspecting  the  awful  depths  into  which 
their  pastor  had  dived  in  quest  of  it.  His  voice  is  now 
silent.  I  leave  it  to  members  of  his  own  profession  to 
decide  whether  it  was  better  for  him  thus  to  sin  outright, 
and  so  to  be  let  into  the  miserable  secret  what  manner  of 
man  he  was,  or  to  have  gone  through  life  outwardly  un 
spotted,  making  the  first  discovery  of  his  latent  evil  at 
the  judgment-seat.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  his  dirt 
calamity,  as  botli  he  and  I  regarded  it,  might  have  beei 
the  only  method  by  which  precisely  such  a  man  as  him 
self,  and  so  situated,  could  be  redeemed.  He  has  learned, 
ere  now,  how  that  matter  stood. 

For  a  man,  with  a  natural  tendency  to  meddh,-  with 
other  people's  business,  there  could  not  possibly  bf-  a 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  37 

more  congenial  sphere  than  the  Liverpool  Consulate. 
For  myself,  I  had  never  been  in  the  habit  of  feeling  that 
I  could  sufficiently  comprehend  any  particular  conjunction 
of  circumstances  with  human  character,  to  justify  me  in 
thrusting  in  my  awkward  agency  among  the  intricate  and 
unintelligible  machinery  of  Providence.  I  have  always 
hated  to  give  advice,  especially  when  there  is  a  prospect 
of  its  being  taken.  It  is  only  one-eyed  people  who  love 
to  advise,  or  have  any  spontaneous  promptitude  of  action. 
When  a  man  opens  both  his  eyes,  he  generally  sees  about 
as  many  reasons  for  acting  in  any  one  way  as  in  any 
other,  and  quite  as  many  for  acting  in  neither ;  and  is 
therefore  likely  to  leave  his  friends  to  regulate  their  own 
conduct,  and  also  to  remain  quiet  as  regards  his  especial 
affairs  till  necessity  shall  prick  him  onward.  Neverthe 
less,  the  world  and  individuals  flourish  upon  a  constant 
succession  of  blunders.  The  secret  of  English  practical 
success  lies  in  their  characteristic  faculty  of  shutting  one 
eye,  whereby  they  get  so  distinct  and  decided  a  view  of 
what  immediately  concerns  them  that  they  go  stumbling 
towards  it  over  a  hundred  insurmountable  obstacles,  and 
achieve  a  magnificent  triumph  without  ever  being  aware 
of  half  its  difficulties.  If  General  McClellan  could  but 
have  shut  his  left  eye,  the  right  one  would  long  ago  have 
guided  us  into  Richmond.  Meanwhile,  I  have  strayed 
far  away  from  the  Consulate,  where,  as  I  was  about  to 
say,  I  was  compelled,  in  spite  of  my  disinclination,  to  im 
part  both  advice  and  assistance  in  multifarious  affairs 
that  did  not  personally  concern  me,  and  presume  that  I 
effected  about  as  little  mischief  as  other  men  in  similar 
contingencies.  The  duties  of  the  office  carried  me  to 
prisons,  police-courts,  hospitals,  lunatic  asylums,  coroner  a 


38  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

inquests,  death-beds,  funerals,  and  brought  me  in  contact 
with  insane  people,  criminals,  ruined  speculators,  wild 
adventurers,  diplomatists,  brother-consuls,  and  all  manner 
of  simpletons  and  unfortunates,  in  greater  number  and 
variety  than  I  had  ever  dreamed  of  as  pertaining  to 
America;  in  addition  to  whom  there  was  an  equivalent 
multitude  of  English  rogues,  dexterously  counterfeiting 
the  genuine  Yankee  article.  It  required  great  discrim 
ination  not  to  be  taken  in  by  these  last-mentioned  scoun 
drels  ;  for  they  knew  how  to  imitate  our  national  traits, 
had  been  at  great  pains  to  instruct  themselves  as  regarded 
American  localities,  and  were  not  readily  to  be  caught 
by  a  cross-examination  as  to  the  topographical  features, 
public  institutions,  or  prominent  inhabitants,  of  the  places 
where  they  pretended  to  belong.  The  best  shibboleth  I 
ever  hit  upon  lay  in  the  pronunciation  of  the  word 
"  been,"  which  the  English  invariably  make  to  rhyme 
with  "  green,"  and  we  Northerners,  at  least,  (in  accord 
ance,  I  think,  with  the  custom  of  Shakspeare's  time,)  uni 
versally  pronounce  "  bin." 

All  the  matters  that  I  have  been  treating  of,  however, 
were  merely  incidental,  and  quite  distinct  from  the  real 
business  of  the  office.  A  great  part  of  the  wear  and 
tear  of  mind  and  temper  resulted  from  the  bad  relations 
between  the  seamen  and  officers  of  American  ships. 
Scarcely  a  morning  passed,  but  that  some  sailor  came  to 
show  the  marks  of  his  ill-usage  on  shipboard.  Often,  it 
was  a  whole  crew  of  them,  each  with  his  broken  head  or 
livid  bruise,  and  all  testifying  with  one  voice  to  a  constant 
series  of  savage  outrages  during  the  voyage ;  or,  it  might 
be,  they  laid  an  accusation  of  actual  murdor,  perpetrated 
by  the  first  or  second  officers  ivith  many  blows  of 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  39 

feieel-knuckles,  a  rope's  end,  or  a  marline-spike,  or  by  the 
captain,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  with  a  shot  of  his 
pistol.  Taking  the  seamen's  view  of  the  case,  you  would 
suppose  that  the  gibbet  was  hungry  for  the  murderers. 
Listening  to  the  Captain's  defence,  you  would  seem  to 
discover  that  he  and  his  officers  were  the  humanest  of 
mortals,  but  were  driven  to  a  wholesome  severity  by  tho 
mutinous  conduct  of  the  crew,  who,  moreover,  had  them 
selves  slain  their  comrade  in  the  drunken  riot  and  confu 
sion  of  the  first  day  or  two  after  they  were  shipped. 
Looked  at  judicially,  there  appeared  to  be  no  right  side 
to  the  matter,  nor  any  right  side  possible  in  so  thoroughly 
vicious  a  system  as  that  of  the  American  mercantile 
marine.  The  Consul  could  do  little,  except  to  take 
depositions,  hold  forth  the  greasy  Testament  to  be  pro 
faned  anew  with  perjured  kisses,  and,  in  a  few  instances 
of  murder  or  manslaughter,  carry  the  case  before  an  Eng 
lish  magistrate,  who  generally  decided  that  the  evidence 
was  too  contradictory  to  authorize  the  transmission  of  the 
accused  for  trial  in  America.  The  newspapers  all  over 
England  contained  paragraphs,  inveighing  against  the 
cruelties  of  American  shipmasters.  The  British  Parlia 
ment  took  up  the  matter,  (for  nobody  is  so  humane  as 
John  Bull,  when  his  benevolent  propensities  are  to  be 
gratified  by  finding  fault  with  his  neighbor,)  and  caused 
Lord  John  Russell  to  remonstrate  with  our  Government 
on  the  outrages  for  which  it  was  responsible  before  the 
world,  and  which  it  failed  to  prevent  or  punish.  The 
American  Secretary  of  State,  old  General  Cass,  responded, 
with  perfectly  astounding  ignorance  of  the  subject,  to  the 
effect  that  the  statements  of  outrages  had  probably  been 
exaggerated,  that  the  present  laws  of  the  United  States 


40  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

were  quite  adequate  to  deal  with  them,  and  that  the  in 
terference  of  the  British  Minister  was  uncalled  for. 

The  truth  is,  that  the  state  of  affairs  was  really  very 
horrible,  and  could  be  met  by  no  laws  at  that  tune  (or  I 
presume  now)  in  existence.  I  once  thought  of  writing  a 
pamphlet  on  the  subject,  but  quitted  the  Consulate  before 
iinding  time  to  effect  my  purpose ;  and  all  that  phase  of 
my  life  immediately  assumed  so  dreamlike  a  consistency 
that  I  despaired  of  making  it  seem  solid  or  tangible  to 
the  public.  And  now  it  looks  distant  and  dim,  like 
troubles  of  a  century  ago.  The  origin  of  the  evil  lay  in 
the  character  of  the  seamen,  scarcely  any  of  whom  were 
American,  but  the  offscourings  and  refuse  of  all  the 
seaports  of  the  world,  such  stuff  as  piracy  is  made  of, 
together  with  a  considerable  intermixture  of  returning 
emigrants,  and  a  sprinkling  of  absolutely  kidnapped 
American  citizens.  Even  with  such  material,  the  ships 
were  very  inadequately  manned.  The  shipmaster  found 
himself  upon  the  deep,  with  a  vast  responsibility  of  prop 
erty  and  human  life  upon  his  hands,  and  no  means  of 
salvation  except  by  compelling  his  inefficient  and  demor 
alized  crew  to  heavier  exertions  than  could  reasonably 
be  required  of  the  same  number  of  able  seamen.  By 
law  he  had  been  intrusted  with  no  discretion  of  judicious 
punishment ;  he  therefore  habitually  left  the  whole  mat 
ter  of  discipline  to  his  irresponsible  mates,  men  often  of 
scarcely  a  superior  quality  to  the  crew.  Hence  ensued  a 
great  mass  of  petty  outrages,  unjustifiable  assaults,  shame 
ful  indignities,  and  nameless  cruelty,  demoralizing  alike 
to  the  perpetrators  and  the  sufferers;  these  enormities 
fell  into  the  ocean  between  the  two  countries,  and  could 
be  punished  in  neither.  Many  miserable  stories  come 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  41 

back  upon  my  memory  as  I  write ;  wrongs  that  were 
immense,  but  for  which  nobody  could  be  held  responsible, 
and  which,  indeed,  the  closer  you  looked  into  them,  the 
more  they  lost  the  aspect  of  wilful  misdoing  and  assumed 
that  of  an  inevitable  calamity.  It  was  the  fault  of  a  sys 
tem,  the  misfortune  of  an  individual.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
however,  there  will  be  no  possibility  of  dealing  effectually 
with  these  troubles  as  long  as  we  deem  it  inconsistent 
•vith  our  national  dignity  or  interests  to  allow  the  Eng 
lish  courts,  under  such  restrictions  as  may  seem  fit,  a 
jurisdiction  over  offences  perpetrated  on  board  our  ves 
sels  in  mid-ocean. 

In  such  a  life  as  this,  the  American  shipmaster  devel 
ops  himself  into  a  man  of  iron  energies,  dauntless  cour 
age,  and  inexhaustible  resource,  at  the  expense,  it  must 
be  acknowledged,  of  some  of  the  higher  and  gentler 
traits  which  might  do  him  excellent  service  in  maintain 
ing  his  authority.  The  class  has  deteriorated  of  late 
years  on  account  of  the  narrower  field  of  selection,  owing 
chiefly  to  the  diminution  of  that  excellent  body  of  respect 
ably  educated  New  England  seamen,  from  the  flower  of 
whom  the  officers  used  to  be  recruited.  Yet  I  found  them, 
in  many  cases,  very  agreeable  and  intelligent  companions, 
with  less  nonsense  about  them  than  landsmen  usually 
have,  eschewers  of  fine-spun  theories,  delighting  in  square 
and  tangible  ideas,  but  occasionally  infested  with  preju 
dices  that  stuck  to  their  brains  like  barnacles  to  a  ship's 
bottom.  I  never  could  flatter  myself  that  I  was  a  gen 
eral  favorite  with  them.  One  or  two,  perhaps,  even  now, 
would  scarcely  meet  me  on  amicable  terms.  Endowed 
universally  with  a  great  pertinacity  of  will,  they  es 
pecially  disliked  the  interference  of  a  consul  with  their 


42  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

management  on  shipboard;  notwithstanding  which  7 
thrust  in  my  very  limited  authority  at  every  available 
opening,  and  did  the  utmost  that  lay  in  my  power,  though 
with  lamentably  small  effect,  towards  enforcing  a  better 
kind  of  discipline.  They  thought,  no  doubt,  (and  on 
plausible  grounds  enough,  but  scarcely  appreciating  just 
that  one  little  grain  of  hard  New  England  sense,  oddly 
thrown  in  among  the  flimsier  composition  of  the  Consul's 
character,)  that  he,  a  landsman,  a  bookman,  and,  as 
people  said  of  him,  a  fanciful  recluse,  could  not  possibly 
understand  anything  of  the  difficulties  or  the  necessities 
of  a  shipmaster's  position.  But  their  cold  regards  were 
rather  acceptable  than  otherwise,  for  it  is  exceedingly 
awkward  to  assume  a  judicial  austerity  in  the  morning 
towards  a  man  with  whom  you  have  been  hobnobbing 
over  night. 

With  the  technical  details  of  the  business  of  that  great 
Consulate,  (for  great  it  then  was,  though  now,  I  fear, 
wofully  fallen  off,  and  perhaps  never  to  be  revived  in 
anything  like  its  former  extent,)  I  did  not  much  interfere. 
They  could  safely  be  left  to  the  treatment  of  two  as  faith 
ful,  upright,  and  competent  subordinates,  both  English 
men,  as  ever  a  man  was  fortunate  enough  to  meet  with, 
in  a  line  of  life  altogether  new  and  strange  to  him.  I  had 
come  over  with  instructions  to  supply  both  their  places 
with  Americans,  but,  possessing  a  happy  faculty  of  know 
ing  my  own  interest  and  the  public's,  I  quietly  kept  hold 
of  them,  being  little  inclined  to  open  the  consular  doors  to 
a  spy  of  the  State  Department  or  an  intriguer  for  my  own 
office.  The  venerable  Vice-Consul  Mr.  Pearce,  had  wit 
nessed  the  successive  arrivals  of  a  score  of  newly  appointed 
Consuls,  shadowy  and  short-lived  dignitaries,  and  carried 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  43 

his  reminiscences  back  to  the  epoch  of  Consul  Maury,  who 
was  appointed  by  Washington,  and  has  acquired  almost 
the  grandeur  of  a  mythical  personage  in  the  annals  of  the 
Consulate.  The  principal  clerk,  Mr.  Wilding,  who  has 
since  succeeded  to  the  Vice- Consulship,  was  a  man  of 
English  integrity  —  not  that  the  English  are  more  honest 
than  ourselves,  but  only  there  is  a  certain  sturdy  reliable  • 
ness  common  among  them,  which  we  do  not  quite  so 
invariably  manifest  in  just  these  subordinate  positions  — 
of  English  integrity,  combined  with  American  acuteness 
of  intellect,  quick-wittedness,  and  diversity  of  talent.  It 
seemed  an  immense  pity  that  he  should  wear  out  his  life 
at  a  desk,  without  a  step  in  advance  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end,  when,  had  it  been  his  luck  to  be  born  on  our 
side  of  the  water,  his  bright  faculties  and  clear  probity 
would  have  insured  him  eminent  success  in  whatever 
path  he  might  adopt.  Meanwhile,  it  would  have  been  a 
sore  mischance  to  me,  had  any  better  fortune  on  his  part 
deprived  me  of  Mr.  Wilding's  services. 

A  fair  amount  of  common  sense,  some  acquaintance  with 
the  United  States  Statutes,  an  insight  into  character,  a  tact 
of  management,  a  general  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a 
reasonable  but  not  too  inveterately  decided  preference  for 
his  own  will  and  judgment  over  those  of  interested  people, 
—  these  natural  attributes  and  moderate  acquirements 
will  enable  a  consul  to  perform  many  of  his  duties 
respectably,  but  not  to  dispense  with  a  great  variety  of 
other  qualifications,  only  attainable  by  long  experience. 
Yet,  I  think,  few  consuls  are  so  well  accomplished.  An 
appointment  of  whatever  grade,  in  the  diplomatic  or  con 
sular  service  of  America,  is  too  often  what  the  English 
call  a  "job";  that  is  to  say,  it  is  made  on  private  and 


44  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

personal  grounds,  without  a  paramount  eye  to  the  public 
good  or  the  gentleman's  especial  fitness  for  the  position. 
It  is  not  too  much  to  say,  (of  course  allowing  for  a  brill 
iant  exception  here  and  there,)  that  an  American  never 
is  thoroughly  qualified  for  a  foreign  post,  nor  has  time  to 
make  himself  so,  before  the  revolution  of  the  political 
'wheel  discards  him  from  his  office.  Our  country  wrongs 
itself  by  permitting  such  a  system  of  unsuitable  ap 
pointments,  and,  still  more,  of  removals  for  no  cause,  just 
when  the  incumbent  might  be  beginning  to  ripen  into 
usefulness.  Mere  ignorance  of  official  detail  is  of  com 
paratively  small  moment ;  though  it  is  considered  indis 
pensable,  I  presume,  that  a  man  in  any  private  capacity 
shall  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  machinery  and 
operation  of  his  business,  and  shall  not  necessarily  lose 
his  position  on  having  attained  such  knowledge.  But 
there  are  so  many  more  important  things  to  be  thought 
of,  in  the  qualifications  of  a  foreign  resident,  that  his 
technical  dexterity  or  clumsiness  is  hardly  worth  men 
tioning. 

One  great  part  of  a  consul's  duty,  for  example,  should 
consist  in  building  up  for  himself  a  recognized  position  in 
the  society  where  he  resides,  so  that  his  local  influence 
might  be  felt  in  behalf  of  his  own  country,  and,  so  far  as 
they  are  compatible  (as  they  generally  are  to  the  utmost 
extent)  for  the  interests  of  both  nations.  The  foreign 
city  should  know  that  it  has  a  permanent  inhabitant  and 
a  hearty  well-wisher  in  him.  There  are  many  conjunc 
tures  (and  one  of  them  is  now  upon  us)  where  a  long- 
established,  honored,  and  trusted  American  citizen,  hold 
ing  a  public  position  under  our  Government  in  such  a 
to\\n  as  Liverpool,  might  go  far  towards  swaying  and 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  45 

directing  the  sympathies  of  the  inhabitants.  He  might 
throw  his  own  weight  into  the  balance  against  mischief- 
makers  ;  he  might  have  set  his  foot  on  the  first  little 
spark  of  malignant  purpose,  which  the  next  wind  may 
blow  into  a  national  war.  But  we  wilfully  give  up  all 
advantages  of  this  kind.  The  position  is  totally  beyond 
the  attainment  of  an  American  ;  there  to-day,  bristling  all 
over  with  the  porcupine  quills  of  our  Republic,  and  gone 
to-morrow,  just  as  he  is  becoming  sensible  of  the  broader 
and  more  generous  patriotism  which  might  almost  amal 
gamate  with  that  of  England,  without  losing  an  atom  of 
its  native  force  and  flavor.  In  the  changes  that  appear 
to  await  us,  and  some  of  which,  at  least,  can  hardly  fail 
to  be  for  good,  let  us  hope  for  a  reform  in  this  matter. 

For  myself,  as  the  gentle  reader  would  spare  me  the 
trouble  of  saying,  I  was  not  at  all  the  kind  of  man  to 
grow  into  such  an  ideal  Consul  as  I  have  here  suggested. 
I  never  in  my  life  desired  to  be  burdened  with  public 
influence.  I  disliked  my  office  from  the  first,  and  never 
came  into  any  good  accordance  with  it.  Its  dignity,  so 
far  as  it  had  any,  was  an  incumbrance ;  the  attentions  it 
drew  upon  me  (such  as  invitations  to  Mayor's  banquets 
and  public  celebrations  of  all  kinds,  where,  to  my  horror, 
I  found  myself  expected  to  stand  up  and  speak)  were  —  as 
I  may  say,  without  incivility  or  ingratitude,  because  there 
is  nothing  personal  in  that  sort  of  hospitality  —  a  bore! 
The  official  business  was  irksome,  and  often  painful 
There  was  nothing  pleasant  about  the  whole  affair  except 
the  emoluments ;  and  even  those,  never  too  bountifully 
reaped,  were  diminished  by  more  than  half  in  the  second 
or  third  year  of  my  incumbency.  All  this  being  true,  I 
was  quite  prepared,  in  advance  of  the  inauguration  of 


46  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

Mr.  Buchanan,  to  send  in  my  resignation.  When  my 
successor  arrived,  I  drew  the  long,  delightful  breath  which 
first  made  me  thoroughly  sensible  what  an  unnatural  life  I 
had  been  leading,  and  compelled  me  to  admire  myself  for 
having  battled  with  it  so  sturdily.  The  new-comer  proved 
to  be  a  very  genial  and  agreeable  gentleman,  an  F.  F.  V., 
and,  as  he  pleasantly  acknowledged,  a  Southern  Fire- 
Fater,  —  an  announcement  to  which  I  responded,  with 
similar  good-humor  and  self-complacency,  by  parading  my 
descent  from  an  ancient  line  of  Massachusetts  Puritans. 
Since  our  brief  acquaintanceship,  my  fire-eating  friend  has 
had  ample  opportunities  to  banquet  on  his  favorite  diet,  hot 
and  hot,  in  the  Confederate  service.  For  myself,  as  soon 
as  I  was  out  of  office,  the  retrospect  began  to  look  unreal. 
I  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was  I,  —  that  figure  whom 
they  called  a  Consul  —  but  a  sort  of  Double  Gauger,  who 
had  been  permitted  to  assume  my  aspect,  under  which  he 
went  through  his  shadowy  duties  with  a  tolerable  show 
of  efficiency,  while  my  real  self  had  lain,  as  regarded  my 
proper  mode  of  being  and  acting,  in  a  state  of  suspended 
animation. 

The  same  sense  of  illusion  still  pursues  me.  There  is 
some  mistake  in  this  matter.  I  have  been  writing  about 
another  man's  consular  experiences,  with  which,  through 
some  mysterious  medium  of  transmitted  ideas,  I  find  my- 
%elf  intimately  acquainted,  but  in  which  I  cannot  possibly 
have  had  a  personal  interest.  Is  it  not  a  dream  alto 
gether  ?  The  figure  of  that  poor  Doctor  of  Divinity  looks 
wonderfully  lifelike ;  so  do  those  of  the  Oriental  adven 
turer  with  the  visionary  coronet  above  his  brow,  and  the 
moonstruck  visitor  of  the  Queen,  and  the  poor  old  wan 
derer,  seeking  his  native  country  through  English  high- 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES.  47 

ways  and  by-ways  for  almost  thirty  years ;  and  so  would 
a  hundred  others  that  I  might  summon  up  with  similar 
distinctness.  But  were  they  more  than  shadows  ? 
Surely,  I  think  not.  Nor  are  these  present  pages  a 
bit  of  intrusive  autobiography.  Let  not  the  reader 
wrong  me  by  supposing  it.  I  never  should  have  written 
with  half  such  unreserve,  had  it  been  a  portion  of  this 
life  congenial  with  my  nature,  which  I  am  living  now, 
instead  of  a  series  of  incidents  and  characters  entirely 
apart  from  my  own  concerns,  and  on  which  the  qualities 
personally  proper  to  me  could  have  had  no  bearing. 
Almost  the  only  real  incidents,  as  I  see  them  now,  were 
the  visits  of  a  young  English  friend,  a  scholar  and  a  liter 
ary  amateur,  between  whom  and  myself  there  sprung  up  an 
affectionate,  and,  I  trust,  not  transitory  regard.  He  used 
to  come  and  sit  or  stand  by  my  fireside,  talking  viva 
ciously  and  eloquently  with  me  about  literature  and  life, 
his  own  national  characteristics  and  mine,  with  such 
kindly  endurance  of  the  many  rough  republicanisms 
wherewith  I  assailed  him,  and  such  frank  and  amiable 
assertion  of  all  sorts  of  English  prejudices  and  mistakes, 
that  I  understood  his  countrymen  infinitely  the  better  for 
him,  and  was  almost  prepared  to  love  the  intensest  Eng 
lishman  of  them  all,  for  his  sake.  It  would  gratify  my 
cherished  remembrance  of  this  dear  friend,  if  I  could 
manage,  without  offending  him,  or  letting  the  public  know 
it,  to  introduce  his  name  upon  my  page.  Bright  was 
the  illumination  of  my  dusky  little  apartment,  as  often  as 
he  made  his  appearance  there ! 

The  English  sketches  which  I  have  been  offering  to 
the  public,  comprise  a  few  of  the  more  external  and 
therefore  more  readily  manageable  things  that  I  tool/ 


48  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES. 

note  of,  in  many  escapes  from  the  imprisonment  of  my 
consular  servitude.  Liverpool,  though  not  very  delight 
ful  as  a  place  of  residence,  is  a  most  convenient  and 
admirable  point  to  get  away  from.  London  is  only  five 
hours  off  by  the  fast  train.  Chester,  the  most  curious 
town  in  England,  with  its  encompassing  wall,  its  ancient 
rows,  and  its  venerable  cathedral,  is  close  at  hand. 
North  Wales,  with  all  its  hills  and  ponds,  its  noble  sea- 
scenery,  its  multitude  of  gray  castles  and  strange  old 
villages,  may  be  glanced  at  in  a  summer  day  or  two. 
The  lakes  and  mountains  of  Cumberland  and  Westmore 
land  may  be  reached  before  dinner-time.  The  haunted 
and  legendary  Isle  of  Man,  a  little  kingdom  by  itself,  lies 
within  the  scope  of  an  afternoon's  voyage.  Edinburgh  or 
Glasgow  are  attainable  over-night,  and  Loch  Lomond 
betimes  in  the  morning.  Visiting  these  famous  localities, 
and  a  great  many  others,  I  hope  that  I  do  not  compro 
mise  my  American  patriotism  by  acknowledging  that  I 
was  often  conscious  of  a  fervent  hereditary  attachment  to 
the  native  soil  of  our  forefathers,  and  felt  it  to  be  our 
own  Old  Home. 


LEAMINGTON  SPA 
IN  the  course  of  several  visits  and  stays  of  considerable 
length  wo  acquired  a  homelike  feeling  towards  Leaming 
ton,  and  came  back  thither  again  and  again,  chiefly  be 
cause  we  had  been  there  before.  Wandering  and  wayside 
people,  such  as  we  had  long  since  become,  retain  a  few 
of  the  instincts  that  belong  to  a  more  settled  way  of 
life,  and  often  prefer  familiar  and  commonplace  objects 
(for  the  very  reason  that  they  are  so)  to  the  dreary 
strangeness  of  scenes  that  might  be  thought  much  better 
worth  the  seeing.  There  is  a  small  nest  of  a  place  in 
Leamington  —  at  No.  10,  Lansdowne  Circus  —  upon 
which,  to  this  day,  my  reminiscences  are  apt  to  settle  as 
one  of  the  coziest  nooks  in  England  or  in  the  world ;  not 
that  it  had  any  special  charm  of  its  own,  but  only  that 
we  stayed  long  enough  to  know  it  well,  and  even  to  grow 
a  little  tired  of  it.  In  my  opinion,  the  very  tediousness  of 
home  and  friends  makes  a  part  of  what  we  love  them  for ; 
if  it  be  not  mixed  in  sufficiently  with  the  other  elements 
of  life,  there  may  be  mad  enjoyment,  but  no  happiness. 

The  modest  abode  to  which  I  have  alluded  forms  ono 
of  a  circular  range  of  pretty,  moderate-sized,  two-story 
houses,  all  built  on  nearly  the  same  plan,  and  each  pro 
vided  with  its  little  grass-plot,  its  flowers,  its  tufts  of  box 
trimmed  intc  globes  and  other  fantastic  shapes,  and  its 
4 


50  LEAMINGTON  SPA. 

verdant  hedge?  shutting  the  house  in  from  the  common 
drive  and  dividing  it  from  its  equally  cozy  neighbors. 
Coming  out  of  the  door,  and  taking  a  turn  round  the 
circle  of  sister-dwellings,  it  is  difficult  to  find  your  way 
Lack  by  any  distinguishing  individuality  of  your  own 
habitation.  In  the  centre  of  the  Circus  is  a  space  fenced 
in  with  iron  railing,  a  small  play-place  and  sylvan  retreat 
for  the  children  of  the  precinct,  permeated  by  brief  paths 
through  the  fresh  English  grass,  and  shadowed  by  vari 
ous  shrubbery ;  amid  which,  if  you  like,  you  may  fancy 
yourself  in  a  deep  seclusion,  though  probably  the  mark  of 
eye-shot  from  the  windows  of  all  the  surrounding  houses. 
But,  in  truth,  with  regard  to  the  rest  of  the  town  and  the 
world  at  large,  an  abode  here  is  a  genuine  seclusion  ;  for 
the  ordinary  stream  of  life  does  not  run  through  this  little, 
quiet  pool,  and  few  or  none  of  the  inhabitants  seem  to  be 
troubled  with  any  business  or  outside  activities.  I  used 
to  set  them  down  as  half-pay  officers,  dowagers  of  narrow 
income,  elderly  maiden  ladies,  and  other  people  of  re 
spectability,  but  small  account,  such  as  hang  on  the 
world's  skirts  rather  than  actually  belong  to  it.  The 
quiet  of  the  place  was  seldom  disturbed,  except  by  the 
grocer  and  butcher,  who  came  to  receive  orders,  or  by 
the  cabs,  hackney-coaches,  and  Bath-chairs,  in  which  the 
ladies  took  an  infrequent  airing,  or  the  livery-steed  which 
the  retired  captain  sometimes  bestrode  for  a  morning  ride, 
or  by  the  red-coated  postman  who  went  his  rounds  twice 
a  day  to  deliver  letters,  and  again  in  the  evening,  ringing 
a  hand-bell,  to  take  letters  for  the  mail.  In  merely  men 
tioning  these  slight  interruptions  of  its  sluggish  stillness, 
I  seem  to  myself  to  disturb  too  much  the  atmosphere  of 
quiet  that  brooded  over  the  spot ;  whereas  its  impression 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  51 

•ipon  me  was.  that  the  world  had  never  found  the  way 
hither,  or  had  forgotten  it,  and  that  the  fortunate  inhab 
itants  were  the  only  ones  who  possessed  the  spell-word 
of  admittance.  Nothing  could  have  suited  me  better,  at 
the  time ;  for  I  had  been  holding  a  position  of  public  ser 
vitude,  which  imposed  upon  me  (among  a  great  many 
lighter  duties)  the  ponderous  necessity  of  being  univer 
sally  civil  and  sociable. 

Nevertheless,  if  a  man  were  seeking  the  bustle  of 
society,  he  might  find  it  more  readily  in  Leamington  than 
in  most  other  English  towns.  It  is  a  permanent  water 
ing-place,  a  sort  of  institution  to  which  I  do  not  know  any 
close  parallel  in  American  life  :  for  such  places  as  Sara 
toga  bloom  only  for  the  summer  season,  and  offer  a  thou 
sand  dissimilitudes  even  then ;  while  Leamington  seems 
to  be  always  in  flower,  and  serves  as  a  home  to  the 
homeless  all  the  year  round.  Its  original  nucleus,  the 
plausible  excuse  for  the  town's  coming  into  prosperous 
existence,  lies'  in  the  fiction  of  a  chalybeate  well,  which, 
indeed,  is  so  far  a  reality  that  out  of  its  magical  depths 
have  gushed  streets,  groves,  gardens,  mansions,  shops, 
and  churches,  and  spread  themselves  along  the  banks  of 
the  little  river  Learn.  This  miracle  accomplished,  tho 
beneficent  fountain  has  retired  beneath  a  pump-room,  and 
appears  to  have  given  up  all  pretensions  to  the  remedial 
virtues  formerly  attributed  to  it.  I  know  not  whether  its 
waters  are  ever  tasted  nowadays ;  but  not  the  less  does 
Leamington  —  in  pleasant  Warwickshire,  at  the  very 
midmost  point  of  England,  in  a  good  hunting  neighbor 
hood,  and  surrounded  by  country-seats  and  castles  —  con 
tinue  to  be  a  resort  of  transient  visitors,  and  the  mor<> 
permanent  abode  of  a  class  of  genteel,  unoccupied 


52  LEAMINGTON  SPA. 

to-do,  but  not  very  wealthy  people,  such  as  are  hardly 
known  among  ourselves.  Persons  who  have  no  country- 
houses,  and  whose  fortunes  are  inadequate  to  a  Londor 
expenditure,  find  here,  I  suppose,  a  sort  of  town  and 
country  life  in  one. 

In  its  present  aspect  the  town  is  of  no  great  age.  In 
contrast  with  the  antiquity  of  many  places  in  its  neigh 
borhood,  it  has  a  bright,  new  face,  and  seems  almost  to 
smile  even  amid  the  sombreness  of  an  English  autumn. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  years  old, 
if  we  reckon  up  that  sleepy  lapse  of  time  during  which  it 
existed  as  a  small  village  of  thatched  houses,  clustered 
round  a  priory ;  and  it  would  still  have  been  precisely 
such  a  rural  village,  but  for  a  certain  Doctor  Jephson, 
who  lived  within  the  memory  of  man,  and  who  found  out 
the  magic  well,  and  foresaw  what  fairy  wealth  might  be 
made  to  flow  from  it.  A  public  garden  has  been  laid  out 
along  the  margin  of  the  Learn,  and  called  the  Jephson 
Garden,  in  honor  of  him  who  created  the  prosperity  of 
his  native  spot.  A  little  way  within  the  garden-gate 
there  is  a  circular  temple  of  Grecian  architecture,  be 
neath  the  dome  of  which  stands  a  marble  statue  of  the 
good  Doctor,  very  well  executed,  and  representing  him 
with  a  face  of  fussy  activity  and  benevolence :  just  the 
kind  of  man,  if  luck  favored  him,  to  build  up  the  for 
tunes  of  those  about  him,  or,  quite  as  probably,  to  blight 
his  whole  neighborhood  by  some  disastrous  speculation. 

The  Jephson  Garden  is  very  beautiful,  like  most  other 
English  pleasure-grounds ;  for,  aided  by  their  moist  cli 
mate  and  not  too  fervid  sun,  the  landscape-gardeners 
excel  in  converting  flat  or  tame  surfaces  into  attractive 
scenery,  chiefly  through  the  skilful  arrangement  of  treea 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  53 

and  shrubbery.  An  Englishman  aims  at  this  effect  even 
in  the  little  patches  under  the  windows  of  a  suburban 
villa,  and  achieves  it  on  a  larger  scale  in  a  tract  of  many 
acres.  The  Garden  is  shadowed  with  trees  of  a  fine 
growth,  standing  alone,  or  in  dusky  groves  and  dense 
entanglements,  pervaded  by  woodland  paths  ;  and  emerg 
ing  from  these  pleasant  glooms,  we  come  upon  a  breadth 
of  sunshine,  where  the  green  sward  —  so  vividly  green 
that  it  has  a  kind  of  lustre  in  it  —  is  spotted  with  beds 
of  gemlike  flowers.  Rustic  chairs  and  benches  are  scat 
tered  about,  some  of  them  ponderously  fashioned  out  of 
the  stumps  of  obtruncated  trees,  and  others  more  artfully 
made  with  intertwining  branches,  or  perhaps  an  imitation 
of  such  frail  handiwork  in  iron.  In  a  central  part  of  the 
Garden  is  an  archery-ground,  where  laughing  maidens 
practise  at  the  butts,  generally  missing  their  ostensible 
mark,  but,  by  the  mere  grace  of  their  action,  sending  an 
unseen  shaft  into  some  young  man's  heart.  There  is 
space,  moreover,  within  these  precincts,  for  an  artificial 
lake,  with  a  little  green  island  in  the  midst  of  it ;  both 
lake  and  island  being  the  haunt  of  swans,  whose  aspect 
and  movement  in  the  water  are  most  beautiful  and 
stately,  —  most  infirm,  disjointed,  and  decrepit,  when, 
unadvisedly,  they  see  fit  to  emerge,  and  try  to  walk  upon 
dry  land.  In  the  latter  case,  they  look  like  a  breed  of 
uncommonly  ill-contrived  geese  ;  and  I  record  the  matter 
here  for  the  sake  of  the  moral, — that  we  should  never 
pass  judgment  on  the  merits  of  any  person  or  thing,  unless 
we  behold  them  in  the  sphere  and  circumstances  to  which 
they  are  specially  adapted.  In  still  another  part  of  the 
Garden  there  is  a  labyrinthine  maze,  formed  of  an  irtri- 
cacy  of  hedge-bordered  walks,  involving  himself  in  which, 


54  LEAMINGTON  SPA. 

a  man  might  wander  for  hours  inextricably  within  a  circuit 
of  only  a  few  yards.  It  seemed  to  me  a  sad  emblem  of 
the  mental  and  moral  perplexities  in  which  we  sometimes 
go  astray,  petty  in  scope,  yet  large  enough  to  entangle  a 
lifetime,  and  bewilder  us  with  a  weary  movement,  but  no 
genuine  progress. 

The  Learn  —  the  "  high  complectioned  Learn,"  as 
Drayton  calls  it  —  after  drowsing  across  the  principal 
street  of  the  town  beneath  a  handsome  bridge,  skirts 
along  the  margin  of  the  Garden  without  any  perceptible 
flow.  Heretofore  I  had  fancied  the  Concord  the  laziest 
river  in  the  world,  but  now  assign  that  amiable  distinc 
tion  to  the  little  English  stream.  Its  water  is  by  no 
means  transparent,  but  has  a  greenish,  goose-puddly  hue, 
which,  however,  accords  well  with  the  other  coloring  and 
characteristics  of  the  scene,  and  is  disagreeable  neither  to 
sight  nor  smell.  Certainly,  this  river  is  a  perfect  feature 
of  that  gentle  picturesqueness  in  which  England  is  so 
rich,  sleeping,  as  it  does,  beneath  a  margin  of  willows 
that  droop  into  its  bosom,  and  other  trees,  of  deeper  ver 
dure  than  our  own  country  can  boast,  inclining  lovingly 
over  it.  On  the  Garden-side  it  is  bordered  by  a  shadowy, 
eecluded  grove,  with  winding  paths  among  its  boskiness, 
affording  many  a  peep  at  the  river's  imperceptible  lapse 
and  tranquil  gleam ;  and  on  the  opposite  shore  stands  the 
priory-church,  with  its  churchyard  full  of  shrubbery  and 
tombstones. 

The  business  portion  of  the  town  clusters  about  the 
banks  of  the  Learn,  and  is  naturally  densest  around  the 
well  to  which  the  modern  settlement  owes  its  existence. 
Here  are  the  commercial  inns,  the  post-office,  the  furni 
ture  dealers,  the  ironmongers,  and  all  the  heavy  and 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  o5 

homely  establishments  that  connect  themselves  even  with 
the  airiest  modes  of  human  life ;  while  upward  from  the 
river,  by  a  long  and  gentle  ascent,  rises  the  principal 
street,  which  is  very  bright  and  cheerful  in  its  physiog 
nomy,  and  adorned  with  shop-fronts  almost  as  splendid  as 
those  of  London,  though  on  a  diminutive  scale.  There 
are  likewise  side-streets  and  cross-streets,  many  of  which 
are  bordered  with  the  beautiful  Warwickshire  elm,  a 
most  unusual  kind  of  adornment  for  an  English  town  ; 
and  spacious  avenues,  wide  enough  to  afford  room  for 
stately  groves,  with  foot-paths  running  beneath  the  lofty 
shade,  and  rooks  cawing  and  chattering  so  high  in  the 
tree-tops  that  their  voices  get  musical  before  reaching  the 
earth.  The  houses  are  mostly  built  in  blocks  and  ranges, 
in  which  every  separate  tenement  is  a  repetition  of  its 
fellow,  though  the  architecture  of  the  different  ranges  is 
•sufficiently  various.  Some  of  them  are  almost  palatial 
in  size  and  sumptuousness  of  arrangement.  Then,  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town,  there  are  detached  villas,  en 
closed  within  that  separate  domain  of  high  stone  fence 
and  embowered  shrubbery  which  an  Englishman  so  loves 
to  build  and  plant  around  his  abode,  presenting  to  the 
public  only  an  iron  gate,  with  a  gravelled  carriage-drive 
winding  away  towards  the  half-hidden  mansion.  Wheth 
er  in  street  or  suburb,  Leamington  may  fairly  be  called 
beautiful,  and,  at  some  points,  magnificent ;  but  by  and 
by  you  become  doubtfully  suspicious  of  a  somewhat  unreal 
finery :  it  is  pretentious,  though  not  glaringly  so ;  it  has 
been  built,  with  malice  aforethought,  as  a  place  of  gentil 
ity  and  enjoyment.  Moreover,  splendid  as  the  houses 
look,  and  comfortable  as  they  often  are,  there  is  a  name- 
iess  something  about  them,  betokening  that  they  have  not 


56  LEAMINGTON  SPA. 

grown  out  of  human  hearts,  but  are  the  creations  of  a 
skilfully  applied  human  intellect :  no  man  has  reared  any 
one  of  them,  whether  stately  or  humble,  to  be  his  life- 
long  residence,  wherein  to  bring  up  his  children,  who  are 
to  inherit  it  as  a  home.  They  are  nicely  contrived  lodging- 
houses,  one  and  all,  —  the  best  as  well  as  the  shabbiest 
of  them,  —  and  therefore  inevitably  lack  some  nameless 
property  that  a  home  should  have.  This  was  the  case 
with  our  own  little  snuggery  in  Lansdowne  Circus,  as 
with  all  the  rest ;  it  had  not  grown  out  of  anybody's  in 
dividual  need,  but  was  built  to  let  or  sell,  and  was  there 
fore  like  a  ready-made  garment,  —  a  tolerable  fit,  but 
only  tolerable. 

All  these  blocks,  ranges,  and  detached  villas  are 
adorned  with  the  finest  and  most  aristocratic  names  that 
I  have  found  anywhere  in  England,  except,  perhaps,  in 
Bath,  which  is  the  great  metropolis  of  that  second-class 
gentility  with  which  watering-places  are  chiefly  popu 
lated.  Lansdowne  Crescent,  Lansdowne  Circus,  Lans 
downe  Terrace,  Regent  Street,  Warwick  Street,  Claren 
don  Street,  the  Upper  and  Lower  Parade:  such  are  a 
few  of  the  designations.  Parade,  indeed,  is  a  well-chosen 
name  for  the  principal  street,  along  which  the  population 
of  the  idle  town  draws  itself  out  for  daily  review  and  dis 
play.  I  only  wish  that  my  descriptive  powers  would 
enable  me  to  throw  off  a  picture  of  the  scene  at  a  sunny 
noontide,  individualizing  each  character  with  a  touch : 
the  great  people  alighting  from  their  carriages  at  the 
principal  shop-doors  ;  the  elderly  ladies  and  infirm  Indian 
officers  drawn  along  in  Bath-chairs ;  the  comely,  rather 
than  pretty,  English  girls,  with  their  deep,  healthy  bloom, 
which  an  American  taste  is  apt  to  deem  fitter  for  a  milk- 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  57 

moid  than  for  a  lady;  the  moustached  gentlemen  with 
frogged  surtouts  and  a  military  air ;  the  nursemaids  and 
chubby  children,  but  no  chubbier  than  our  own,  and 
scampering  on  slenderer  legs  ;  the  sturdy  figure  of  John 
Bull  in  all  varieties  and  of  all  ages,  but  ever  with  the 
stamp  of  authenticity  somewhere  about  him. 

To  say  the  truth,  I  have  been  holding  the  pen  over  my 
paper,  purposing  to  write  a  descriptive  paragraph  or  two 
about  the  throng  on  the  principal  Parade  of  Leamington, 
so  arranging  it  as  to  present  a  sketch  of  the  British  out-of- 
door  aspect  on  a  morning  walk  of  gentility ;  but  I  find  no 
personages  quite  sufficiently  distinct  and  individual  in  my 
memory  to  supply  the  materials  of  such  a  panorama. 
Oddly  enough,  the  only  figure  that  comes  fairly  forth  to 
my  mind's  eye  is  that  of  a  dowager,  one  of  hundreds 
whom  I  used  to  marvel  at,  all  over  England,  but  who 
have  scarcely  a  representative  among  our  own  ladies  of 
autumnal  life,  so  thin,  careworn,  and  frail,  as  age  usually 
makes  the  latter. 

I  have  heard  a  good  deal  of  the  tenacity  with  which 
English  ladies  retain  their  personal  beauty  to  a  late 
period  of  life  ;  but  (not  to  suggest  that  an  American  eye 
needs  use  and  cultivation  before  it  can  quite  appreciate 
the  charm  of  English  beauty  at  any  age)  it  strikes  me 
that  an  English  lady  of  fifty  is  apt  to  become  a  creature 
less  refined  and  delicate,  so  far  as  her  physique  goes, 
than  anything  that  we  Western  people  class  under  the 
name  of  woman.  She  has  an  awful  ponderosity  of  frame, 
not  pulpy,  like  the  looser  development  of  our  few  fat 
women,  but  massive  with  solid  beef  and  streaky  tallow ; 
so  that  (though  struggling  manfully  against  the  idea)  you 
inevitably  think  of  her  as  made  up  of  steaks  and  sirloins. 


58  LEAMINGTON  SPA. 

When  she  walks,  her  advance  is  elephantine.    When  she 
sits  down  it  is  on  a  great  round  space  of  her  Maker's 
footstool,  where  she  looks  as  if  nothing  could  ever  move 
her.     She  imposes  awe  and  respect  by  the  muchness  of 
her  personality,  to  such  a  degree  that  you  probably  credit 
her  with  far  greater  moral  and  intellectual  force  than  she 
can  fairly  claim.     Her  visage  is  usually  grim  and  stern, 
seldom   positively   forbidding,   yet   calmly   terrible,   not 
merely  by  its  breadth  and  weight  of  feature,  but  because  it 
seems  to  express  so  much  well-founded  self-reliance,  such 
acquaintance  with  the  world,  its  toils,  troubles,  and  dan 
gers,  and  such  sturdy  capacity  for  trampling  down  a  foe. 
Without  anything  positively  salient,  or  actively  offensive, 
or,  indeed,  unjustly  formidable  to  her  neighbors,  she  has 
the  effect  of  a  seventy-four  gun-ship  in  time  of  peace  ; 
for,  while  you  assure  yourself  that  there  is  no  real  dan 
ger,  you  cannot  help  thinking  how  tremendous  would  be 
her  onset,  if  pugnaciously  inclined,  and  how  futile  the 
effort  to  inflict  any  counter-injury.     She  certainly  looks 
tenfold  —  nay,  a  hundred-fold — better  able  to  take  care  of 
herself  than  our  slender-framed  and  haggard  womankind ; 
but  I  have  not  found  reason  to  suppose  that  the  English 
dowager  of  fifty  has  actually  greater  courage,  fortitude, 
and  strength  of  character  than  our  women  of  similar  age, 
or  even  a  tougher  physical  endurance  than  they.     Mor 
ally,  she  is  strong,  I  suspect,  only  in  society,  and  in  the 
common  routine  of  social  affairs,  and  would  be  found 
powerless  and  timid  in  any  exceptional  strait  that  might 
call   for   energy   outside   of  the   conventionalities   amid 
which  she  has  grown  up. 

You  can  meet  this  figure  in  the  street,  and  live,  and 
even  smile  at  the  recollection.     But  conceive  of  her  in  a 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  59 

ball-room,  with  the  bare,  brawny  arms  that  she  invariably 
displays  there,  and  all  the  other  corresponding  develop 
ment,  such  as  is  beautiful  in  the  maiden  blossom,  but  a 
spectacle  to  howl  at  in  such  an  over-blown  cabbage-roso 
as  this. 

Yet,  somewhere  in  this  enormous  bulk  there  must  be 
hidden  the  modest,  slender,  violet-nature  of  a  girl,  whom 
an  alien  mass  of  earthliness  has  unkindly  overgrown  ;  for 
an  English  maiden  in  her  teens,  though  very  seldom  so 
pretty  as  our  own  damsels,  possesses,  to  say  the  truth, 
a  certain  charm  of  half-blossom,  and  delicately  folded 
leaves,  and  tender  womanhood  shielded  by  maidenly 
reserves,  with  which,  somehow  or  other,  our  American 
girls  often  fail  to  adorn  themselves  during  an  appreciable 
moment.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  English  violet  should  grow 
into  such  an  outrageously  developed  peony  as  I  have 
attempted  to  describe.  I  wonder  whether  a  middle-aged 
husband  ought  to  be  considered  as  legally  married  to  all 
the  accretions  that  have  overgrown  the  slenderness  of  his 
bride,  since  he  led  her  to  the  altar,  and  which  make  her 
so  much  more  than  he  ever  bargained  for !  Is  it  not  a 
sounder  view  of  the  case,  that  the  matrimonial  bond  can 
not  be  held  to  include  the  three  fourths  of  the  wife  that 
had  no  existence  when  the  ceremony  was  performed? 
And  as  a  matter  of  conscience  and  good  morals,  ought 
not  an  English  married  pair  to  insist  upon  the  celebra 
tion  of  a  Silver  Wedding  at  the  end  of  twenty-five  years 
in  order  to  legalize  and  mutually  appropriate  that  cor 
poreal  growth  of  which  both  parties  have  individually 
come  into  possession  since  they  were  pronounced  one 
flesh? 

The  chief  enjoyment  of  my  several  visits  to  Learning- 


60  LEAMINGTON  SPA. 

ton  lay  in  rural  walks  about  the  neighborhood,  and  in 
jaunts  to  places  of  note  and  interest,  which  are  particu 
larly  abundant  in  that  region.  The  high-roads  are  made 
pleasant  to  the  traveller  by  a  border  of  trees,  and  often 
afford  him  the  hospitality  of  a  wayside  bench  beneath  a 
comfortable  shade.  But  a  fresher  delight  is  to  be  found 
in  the  foot-paths,  \\hich  go  wandering  away  from  style  to 
style,  along  hedges,  and  across  broad  fields,  and  through 
wooded  parks,  leading  you  to  little  hamlets  of  thatched 
cottages,  ancient,  solitary  farm-houses,  picturesque  old 
mills,  streamlets,  pools,  and  all  those  quiet,  secret,  unex 
pected,  yet  strangely  familiar  features  of  English  scenery 
that  Tennyson  shows  us  in  his  idyls  and  eclogues.  These 
bypaths  admit  the  wayfarer  into  the  very  heart  of  rural 
life,  and  yet  do  not  burden  him  with  a  sense  of  intrusive- 
ness.  He  has  a  right  to  go  whithersoever  they  lead  him ; 
for,  with  all  their  shaded  privacy,  they  are  as  much  the 
property  of  the  public  as  the  dusty  high-road  itself,  and 
even  by  an  older  tenure.  Their  antiquity  probably  ex 
ceeds  that  of  the  Roman  ways;  the  footsteps  of  the 
aboriginal  Britons  first  wore  away  the  grass,  and  the 
natural  flow  of  intercourse  between  village  and  village 
has  kept  the  track  bare  ever  since.  An  American 
farmer  would  plough  across  any  such  path,  and  obliter 
ate  it  with  his  hills  of  potatoes  and  Indian  corn  ;  but 
here  it  is  protected  by  law,  and  still  more  by  the  sacred 
ness  that  inevitably  springs  up,  in  this  soil,  along  th 
well-defined  footprints  of  centuries.  Old  associations 
are  sure  to  be  fragrant  herbs  in  English  nostrils  :  we 
pull  them  up  as  weeds. 

I  remember  such  a  path,  the  access  to  which  i*  from 
Lovers'  Grove,  a  range  of  tall  old  oaks  and  elm»  or  u 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  61 

high  hill-top,  whence  there  is  a  view  of  "Warwick  Castle, 
and  a  wide  extent  of  landscape,  beautiful,  though  be- 
dimmed  with  English  mist.  This  particular  foot-path, 
however,  is  not  a  remarkably  good  specimen  of  its  kind, 
since  it  leads  into  no  hollows  and  seclusions,  and  soon 
terminates  in  a  high  road.  It  connects  Leamington  by  a 
short  cut  with  the  small  neighboring  village  of  Lillington, 
a  place  which  impresses  an  American  observer  with  its 
many  points  of  contrast  to  the  rural  aspects  of  his  own 
country.  The  village  consists  chiefly  of  one  row  of  con 
tiguous  dwellings,  separated  only  by  party-walls,  but  ill- 
matched  among  themselves,  being  of  different  heights, 
and  apparently  of  various  ages,  though  all  are  of  an  an 
tiquity  which  we  should  call  venerable.  Some  of  the 
windows  are  leaden-framed  lattices,  opening  on  hinges. 
These  houses  are  mostly  built  of  gray  stone  ;  but  others, 
in  the  same  range,  are  of  brick,  and  one  or  two  are  in  a 
very  old  fashion,  —  Elizabethan,  or  still  older,  —  having 
a  ponderous  framework  of  oak,  painted  black,  and  filled 
in  with  plastered  stone  or  bricks.  Judging  by  the  patches 
of  repair,  the  oak  seems  to  be  the  more  durable  part  of 
the  structure.  Some  of  the  roofs  are  covered  with  earth- 
ern  tiles ;  others  (more  decayed  and  poverty-stricken) 
with  thatch,  out  of  which  sprouts  a  luxurious  vegetation 
of  grass,  house-leeks,  and  yellow  flowers.  What  es 
pecially  strikes  an  American  is  the  lack  of  that  insulated 
space,  the  intervening  gardens,  grass-plots,  orchards 
broad-spreading  shade-trees,  which  occur  between  our 
own  village-houses.  These  English  dwellings  have  no 
such  separate  surroundings ;  they  all  grow  together,  like 
the  cells  of  a  honey-comb. 

Beyond  the  first  row  of  houses,  and  hidden  from  it  by 


62  LEAMINGTON  SPA. 

a  turn  of  the  road,  there  was  another  row  (or  block,  as 
we  should  call  it)  of  small  old  cottages,  stuck  one  against 
another,  with  their  thatched  roofs  forming  a  single  con 
tiguity.  These,  I  presume,  were  the  habitations  of  the 
poorest  order  of  rustic  laborers ;  and  the  narrow  precincts 
of  each  cottage,  as  well  as  the  close  neighborhood  of  the 
whole,  gave  the  impression  of  a  stifled,  unhealthy  atmos 
phere  among  the  occupants.  It  seemed  impossible  that 
there  should  be  a  cleanly  reserve,  a  proper  self-respect 
among  individuals,  or  a  wholesome  unfamiliarity  between 
families,  where  human  life  was  crowded  and  massed  into 
such  intimate  communities  as  these.  Nevertheless,  not 
to  look  beyond  the  outside,  I  never  saw  a  prettier  rural 
scene  than  was  presented  by  this  range  of  contiguous 
huts.  For  in  front  of  the  whole  row  was  a  luxuriant 
and  well-trimmed  hawthorn  hedge,  and  belonging  to  each 
cottage  was  a  little  square  of  garden-ground,  separated 
from  its  neighbors  by  a  line  of  the  same  verdant  fence. 
The  gardens  were  chockfull,  not  of  esculent  vegetables, 
but  of  flowers,  familiar  ones,  but  very  bright-colored,  and 
shrubs  of  box,  some  of  which  were  trimmed  into  artistic 
shapes ;  and  I  remember,  before  one  door,  a  representa 
tion  of  Warwick  Castle,  made  of  oyster-shells.  The 
cottagers  evidently  loved  the  little  nests  in  which  they 
dwelt,  and  did  their  best  to  make  them  beautiful,  and 
succeeded  more  than  tolerably  well,  —  so  kindly  did 
Nature  help  their  humble  efforts  with  its  verdure,  flow 
ers,  moss,  lichens,  and  the  green  things  that  grew  out  of 
the  thatch.  Through  some  of  the  open  doorways  wo 
saw  plump  children  rolling  about  on  the  stone  floors,  and 
th^ir  mothers,  by  no  means  very  pretty,  but  as  happy- 
looking  as  mothers  generally  are ;  and  while  we  gazed  at 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  6,1 

these  domestic  matters,  an  old  woman  rushed  wildly  out 
of  one  of  the  gates,  upholding  a  shovel,  on  which  she 
clanged  and  clattered  with  a  key.  At  first  we  fancied 
that  she  intended  an  onslaught  against  ourselves,  but  soon 
discovered  that  a  more  dangerous  enemy  was  abroad ;  for 
the  old  lady's  bees  had  swarmed,  and  the  air  was  full  of 
them,  whizzing  by  our  heads  like  bullets. 

Not  far  from  these  two  rows  of  houses  and  cottages,  a 
green  lane,  overshadowed  with  trees,  turned  aside  from 
the  main  road,  and  tended  towards  a  square,  gray  tower, 
the  battlements  of  which  were  just  high  enough  to  be 
visible  above  the  foliage.  Wending  our  way  thitherward, 
we  found  the  very  picture  and  ideal  of  a  country  church 
and  churchyard.  The  tower  seemed  to  be  of  Norman 
architecture,  low,  massive,  and  crowned  with  battlements. 
The  body  of  the  church  was  of  very  modest  dimensions, 
and  the  eaves  so  low  that  I  could  touch  them  with  my 
walking-stick.  We  looked  into  the  windows  and  beheld 
the  dim  and  quiet  interior,  a  narrow  space,  but  venerable 
with  the  consecration  of  many  centuries,  and  keeping  its 
sanctity  as  entire  and  inviolate  as  that  of  a  vast  cathedral. 
The  nave  was  divided  from  the  side  aisles  of  the  church 
by  pointed  arches  resting  on  very  sturdy  pillars :  it  was 
good  to  see  how  solemnly  they  held  themselves  to  their 
age-long  task  of  supporting  that  lowly  roof.  There  was 
a  small  organ,  suited  in  size  to  the  vaulted  hollow,  which 
it  weekly  filled  with  religious  sound.  On  the  opposite 
wall  of  the  church,  between  two  windows,  was  a  mural 
tablet  of  white  marble,  with  an  inscription  in  black  let 
ters,  —  the  only  such  memorial  that  I  could  discern, 
although  many  dead  people  doubtless  lay  beneath  the 
floor,  and  had  paved  it  with  their  ancient  tombstones,  aa 


64  LEAMINGTON  SPA. 

is  customary  in  old  English  churches.  There  were  no 
modern  painted  windows,  flaring  with  raw  colors,  nor 
other  gorgeous  adornments,  such  as  the  present  taste  for 
mediaeval  restoration  often  patches  upon  the  decorous 
simplicity  of  the  gray  village-church.  It  is  probably  the 
worshipping-place  of  no  more  distinguished  a  congrega 
tion  than  the  farmers  and  peasantry  who  inhabit  the 
houses  and  cottages  which  I  have  just  described.  Had 
the  lord  of  the  manor  been  one  of  the  parishioners,  there 
would  have  been  an  eminent  pew  near  the  chancel,  walled 
high  about,  curtained,  and  softly  cushioned,"  warmed  by  a 
fireplace  of  its  own,  and  distinguished  by  hereditary  tab 
lets  and  escutcheons  on  the  enclosed  stone  pillar. 

A  well-trodden  path  led  across  the  churchyard,  and 
the  gate  being  on  the  latch,  we  entered,  and  walked  round 
among  the  graves  and  monuments.  The  latter  were 
chiefly  head-stones,  none  of  which  were  very  old,  so  far 
as  was  discoverable  by  the  dates;  some,  indeed,  in  so 
ancient  a  cemetery,  were  disagreeably  new,  with  inscrip 
tions  glittering  like  sunshine,  in  gold  letters.  The  ground 
must  have  been  dug  over  and  over  again,  innumerable 
times,  until  the  soil  is  made  up  of  what  was  once  human 
clay,  out  of  which  have  sprung  successive  crops  of  grave 
stones,  that  flourish  their  allotted  time,  and  disappear, 
like  the  weeds  and  flowers  in  their  briefer  period.  The 
English  climate  is  very  unfavorable  to  the  endurance  of 
memorials  in  the  open  air.  Twenty  years  of  it  suffice 
to  give  as  much  antiquity  of  aspect,  whether  to  tombstone 
or  edifice,  as  a  hundred  years  of  our  own  drier  atmos 
phere, —  so  soon  do  the  drizzly  rains  and  constant  mois 
ture  corrode  the  surface  of  marble  or  freestone.  Sculp 
tured  edges  lose  their  sharpness  in  a  year  or  two  ;  yellow 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  65 

lichens  overspread  a  beloved  name,  and  obliterate  it  while 
it  is  yet  fresh  upon  some  survivor's  heart.  Time  gnaws 
an  English  gravestone  with  wonderful  appetite  ;  and 
when  the  inscription  is  quite  illegible,  the  sexton  takes 
the  useless  slab  away,  and  perhaps  makes  a  hearthstone 
of  it,  and  digs  up  the  unripe  bones  which  it  ineffectually 
tried  to  memorialize,  and  gives  the  bed  to  another  sleeper. 
In  the  Charter-Street  burial-ground  at  Salem,  and  in  the 
old  graveyard  on  the  hill  at  Ipswich,  I  have  seen  more 
ancient  gravestones,  with  legible  inscriptions  on  them, 
than  in  any  English  churchyard. 

And  yet  this  same  ungenial  climate,  hostile  as  it  gen 
erally  is  to  the  long  remembrance  of  departed  people,  has 
sometimes  a  lovely  way  of  dealing  with  the  records  on 
certain  monuments  that  lie  horizontally  in  the  open  air. 
The  rain  falls  into  the  deep  incisions  of  the  letters,  and 
has  scarcely  time  to  be  dried  away  before  another  shower 
sprinkles  the  flat  stone  again,  and  replenishes  those  little 
reservoirs.  The  unseen,  mysterious  seeds  of  mosses  find 
their  way  into  the  lettered  furrows,  and  are  made  to  ger 
minate  by  the  continual  moisture  and  watery  sunshine  of 
the  English  sky  ;  and  by  and  by,  in  a  year,  or  two  years, 
or  many  years,  behold  the  complete  inscription  — 


Usetij  tlje 

and  all  the  rest  of  the  tender  falsehood  —  beautifully 
embossed  in  raised  letters  of  living  green,  a  bas-relief 
of  velvet  moss  on  the  marble  slab  !  It  becomes  more 
legible,  under  the  skyey  influences,  after  the  world  has 
forgotten  the  deceased,  than  when  it  was  fresh  from  the 
Bt  one-cutter's  hands.  It  outlives  the  grief  of  friends. 
T  first  saw  an  example  of  this  in  Bebbington  church- 


66  LEAMINGTON  SPA. 

yard,  in  Cheshire,  and  thought  that  Nature  must  needs 
have  had  a  special  tenderness  for  the  person  (no  noted 
man,  however,  in  the  world's  history)  so  long  ago  laid 
beneath  that  stone,  since  she  took  such  wonderful  pains 
to  "  keep  his  memory  green."  Perhaps  the  proverbial 
phrase  just  quoted  may  have  had  its  origin  in  the  natural 
phenomenon  here  described. 

While  we  rested  ourselves  on  a  horizontal  monument, 
which  was  elevated  just  high  enough  to  be  a  convenient 
seat,  I  observed  that  one  of  the  gravestones  lay  very 
close  to  the  church,  —  so  close  that  the  droppings  of  the 
eaves  would  fall  upon  it.  It  seemed  as  if  the  inmate  of 
that  grave  had  desired  to  creep  under  the  church-wall. 
On  closer  inspection,  we  found  an  almost  illegible  epitaph 
on  the  stone,  and  with  difficulty  made  out  this  forlorn 
verse :  — 

"  Poorly  lived, 

And  poorly  died, 

Poorly  buried, 

And  no  one  cried." 

It  would  be  hard  to  compress  the  story  of  a  cold  and 
luckless  life,  death,  and  burial  into  fewer  words,  or  more 
impressive  ones ;  at  least,  we  found  them  impressive,  per 
haps  because  we  had  to  re-create  the  inscription  by 
scraping  away  the  lichens  from  the  faintly  traced  letters. 
The  grave  was  on  the  shady  and  damp  side  of  the  church, 
endwise  towards  it,  the  head-stone  being  within  about 
three  feet  of  the  foundation-wall ;  so  that,  unless  the  poor 
innn  was  a  dwarf,  he  must  have  been  doubled  up  to 
fit  him  into  his  final  resting-place.  No  wonder  that  his 
epitaph  murmured  against  so  poor  a  burial  as  this !  His 
name,  as  well  as  I  could  make  it  out,  was  Treeo,  —  Joh» 


LEAMINGTON   SPA.  C7 

Treeo,  I  think,  —  and  he  died  in  1810,  at  the  age  of  sev 
enty-four.  The  gravestone  is  so  overgrown  with  grass 
and  weeds,  so  covered  with  unsightly  lichens,  and  so 
crumbly  with  time  and  foul  weather,  that  it  is  question 
able  whether  anybody  will  ever  be  at  the  trouble  of  de 
ciphering  it  again.  But  there  is  a  quaint  and  sad  kind 
of  enjoyment  in  defeating  (to  such  slight  degree  as  mj 
pen  may  do  it)  the  probabilities  of  oblivion  for  poor  John 
Treeo,  and  asking  a  little  sympathy  for  him,  half  a  cen 
tury  after  his  death,  and  making  him  better  and  more 
widely  known,  at  least,  than  any  other  slumberer  in  Lil- 
lington  churchyard :  he  having  been,  as  appearances  go, 
the  outcast  of  them  all. 

You  find  similar  old  churches  and  villages  in  all  the 
neighboring  country,  at  the  distance  of  every  two  or  three 
miles ;  and  I  describe  them,  not  as  being  rare,  but  be 
cause  they  are  so  common  and  characteristic.  The  vil 
lage  of  Whitnash,  within  twenty  minutes'  walk  of  Leam 
ington,  looks  as  secluded,  as  rural,  and  as  little  disturbed 
by  the  fashions  of  to-day,  as  if  Dr.  Jephson  had  never 
developed  all  those  Parades  and  Crescents  out  of  his 
magic  well.  I  used  to  wonder  whether  the  inhabitants 
had  ever  yet  heard  of  railways,  or,  at  their  slow  rate  of 
progress,  had  even  reached  the  epoch  of  stage-coaches. 
As  you  approach  the  village,  while  it  is  yet  unseen,  you 
observe  a  tall,  overshadowing  canopy  of  elm-tree  tops, 
beneath  which  you  almost  hesitate  to  follow  the  public 
road,  on  account  of  the  remoteness  that  seems  to  exist 
between  the  precincts  of  this  old-world  community  and 
the  thronged  modern  street  out  of  which  you  have  so 
recently  emerged.  Venturing  onward,  however,  you 
soon  find  yourself  in  the  heart  of  Whitnash,  and  see 


68  LEAMINGTON  SPA. 

an  Irregular  ring  of  ancient  rustic  dwellings  surrounding 
the  village-green,  on  one  side  of  which  stands  the  church, 
with  its  square  Norman  tower  and  battlements,  while 
close  adjoining  is  the  vicarage,  made  picturesque  by 
peaks  and  gables.  At  first  glimpse,  none  of  the  houses 
appear  to  be  less  than  two  or  three  centuries  old,  and 
they  are  of  the  ancient,  wooden-framed  fashion,  with 
thatched  roofs,  which  give  them  the  air  of  birds'  nests, 
thereby  assimilating  them  closely  to  the  simplicity  of 
Nature. 

The  church-tower  is  mossy  and  much  gnawed  by  time  ; 
it  has  narrow  loopholes  up  and  down  its  front  and  sides, 
and  an  arched  window  over  the  low  portal,  set  with  small 
panes  of  glass,  cracked,  dim,  and  irregular,  through  which 
a  bygone  age  is  peeping  out  into  the  daylight.  Some  of 
those  old,  grotesque  faces,  called  gargoyles,  are  seen  on 
the  projections  of  the  architecture.  The  churchyard  is 
very  small,  and  is  encompassed  by  a  gray  stone  fence 
that  looks  as  ancient  as  the  church  itself.  In  front  of  the 
tower,  on  the  village-green,  is  a  yew-tree  of  incalculable 
age,  with  a  vast  circumference  of  trunk,  but  a  very  scanty 
head  of  foliage  ;  though  its  boughs  still  keep  some  of  the 
vitality  which  perhaps  \vas  in  its  early  prime  when  the 
Saxon  invaders  founded  Whitnash.  A  thousand  years 
is  no  extraordinary  antiquity  in  the  lifetime  of  a  yew. 
Wo  were  pleasantly  startled,  however,  by  discovering  an 
exuberance  of  more  youthful  life  than  we  had  thought 
possible  in  so  old  a  tree ;  for  the  faces  of  two  children 
laughed  at  us  out  of  an  opening  in  the  trunk,  which  had 
become  hollow  with  long  decay.  On  one  side  of  the 
yew  stood  a  framework  of  worm-eaten  timber,  the  use 
and  meaning  of  which  puzzled  me  exceedingly,  till  I 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  69 

made  it  out  to  be  the  village-stocks :  a  public  institution 
that,  in  its  day,  had  doubtless  hampered  many  a  pair  of 
shank-bones,  now  crumbling  in  the  adjacent  churchyard. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  this  old-fashioned 
mode  of  punishment  is  still  in  vogue  among  the  good 
people  of  Whitnash.  The  vicar  of  the  parish  has  anti 
quarian  propensities,  and  had  probably  dragged  the  stocks 
out  of  some  dusty  hiding-place,  and  set  them  up  on  their 
former  site  as  a  curiosity. 

I  disquiet  myself  in  vain  with  the  effort  to  hit  upon 
some  characteristic  feature,  or  assemblage  of  features,  that 
shall  convey  to  the  reader  the  influence  of  hoar  antiquity 
lingering  into  the  present  daylight,  as  I  so  often  felt  it  in 
these  old  English  scenes.  It  is  only  an  American  who 
can  feel  it ;  and  even  he  begins  to  find  himself  growing 
insensible  to  its  effect,  after  a  long  residence  in  England. 
But  while  you  are  still  new  in  the  old  country,  it  thrills 
you  with  strange  emotion  to  think  that  this  little  church  of 
Whitnash,  humble  as  it  seems,  stood  for  ages  under  the 
Catholic  faith,  and  has  not  materially  changed  since  Wick- 
cliffe's  days,  and  that  it  looked  as  gray  as  now  in  Bloody 
Mary's  time,  and  that  Cromwell's  troopers  broke  off  the 
stone  noses  of  those  same  gargoyles  that  are  now  grinning 
in  your  face.  So,  too,  with  the  immemorial  yew-tree :  you 
Bee  its  great  roots  grasping  hold  of  the  earth  like  gigantic 
claws,  clinging  so  sturdily  that  no  effort  of  time  can 
wrench  them  away ;  and  there  being  life  in  the  old  tree, 
you  feel  all  the  more  as  if  a  contemporary  witness  were 
telling  you  of  the  things  that  have  been.  It  has  lived 
among  men,  and  been  a  familiar  object  to  them,  and  seen 
them  brought  to  be  christened  and  married  and  buried  in 
the  neighboring  church  and  churchyard,  through  so  many 


70  LEAMINGTON   SPA. 

centuries,  that  it  knows  all  about  our  race,  so  far  as  fifty 
generations  of  the  Whitnash  people  can  supply  such 
knowledge. 

And,  after  all,  what  a  weary  life  it  must  have  been  for 
the  old  tree  !  Tedious  beyond  imagination  !  Such,  I 
think,  is  the  final  impression  on  the  mind  of  an  American 
visitor,  when  his  delight  at  finding  something  permanent 
begins  to  yield  to  his  Western  love  of  change,  and  he 
becomes  sensible  of  the  heavy  air  of  a  spot  where  the 
forefathers  and  foremothers  have  grown  up  together, 
intermarried,  and  died,  through  a  long  succession  of  lives, 
without  any  intermixture  of  new  elements,  till  family 
features  and  character  are  all  run  in  the  same  inevitable 
mould.  Life  is  there  fossilized  in  its  greenest  leaf.  The 
man  who  died  yesterday  or  ever  so  long  ago  walks  the 
village-street  to-day,  and  chooses  the  same  wife  that  he 
married  a  hundred  years  since,  and  must  be  buried  again 
to-morrow  under  the  same  kindred  dust  that  has  already 
covered  him  half  a  score  of  times.  The  stone  threshold 
of  his  cottage  is  worn  away  with  his  hob-nailed  footsteps, 
shuffling  over  it  from  the  reign  of  the  first  Plantagenet  to 
that  of  Victoria.  Better  than  this  is  the  lot  of  our  rest 
less  countrymen,  whose  modern  instinct  bids  them  tend 
always  towards  "  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new."  Rather 
than  such  monotony  of  sluggish  ages,  loitering  on  a  vil 
lage-green,  toiling  in  hereditary  fields,  listening  to  the 
parson's  drone  lengthened  through  centuries  in  the  gray 
Norman  church,  let  us  welcome  whatever  change  may 
come,  —  change  of  place,  social  customs,  political  institu 
tions,  modes  of  worship,  —  trusting,  that,  if  all  present 
things  shall  vanish,  they  will  but  make  room  for  better 
systems,  and  for  a  higher  type  of  man  to  clothe  his  life 
in  them,  and  to  fling  them  off  in  turn. 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  71 

Nevertheless,  while  an  American  willingly  accepts 
growth  and  change  as  the  *aw  of  his  own  national  and 
private  existence,  he  has  ?  singular  tenderness  for  the 
stone-incrusted  institutions  of  the  mother-country.  The 
reason  may  be  (though  I  should  pre  er  a  more  generous 
explanation)  that  he  recognires  the  tendency  of  these 
hardened  forms  to  stiffen  her  joints  and  fetter  her  ankles, 
in  the  race  and  rivalry  of  improvement.  I  hated  to  see 
so  much  as  a  twig  of  ivy  wr^n^hed  away  from  an  old 
wall  in  England.  Yet  change  if  at  work,  even  in  such  a 
village  as  Whitnash.  At  a  subsequent  visit,  looking  more 
critically  at  the  irregular  circle  of  dwellings  that  surround 
the  yew-tree  and  confront  the  church,  I  perceived  that 
some  of  the  houses  must  have  beer  built  within  no  long 
time,  although  the  thatch,  the  quaixit  gables,  and  the  old 
oaken  framework  of  the  others  diffused  an  air  of  antiquity 
over  the  whole  assemblage.  The  church  itself  was  un 
dergoing  repair  and  restoration,  which  is  but  another 
name  for  change.  Masons  were  making  patch-work  on 
the  front  of  the  tower,  and  were  saw?ng  a  slab  of  stone 
and  piling  up  bricks  to  strengthen  the  side-wall,  or  pos 
sibly  to  enlarge  the  ancient  edifice  by  an  additional  aisle. 
Moreover,  they  had  dug  an  immense  pit  in  the  church 
yard,  long  and  broad,  and  fifteen  feet  de^p,  two  thirds  of 
which  profundity  were  discolored  by  human  decay,  and 
mixed  up  with  crumbly  bones.  What  tbb  excavation 
was  intended  for  I  could  nowise  imagine,  unless  it  were 
the  very  pit  in  which  Longfellow  bids  the  "  Dead  Past 
bury  its  Dead,"  and  Whitnash,  of  all  places  i*\  the  world, 
were  going  to  avail  itself  of  our  poet's  suggestion.  If  so, 
it  must  needs  be  confessed  that  many  pictu**€s^ue  and 
delightful  things  would  be  thrown  into  the  hole-  r-i.J 
covered  out  of  sight  forever. 


72  LEAMINGTON   SPA. 

The  article  which  I  am  writing  has  taker,  its  own 
course,  and  occupied  itself  almost  wholly  with  country 
churches ;  whereas  I  had  purposed  to  attempt  a  descrip 
tion  of  some  of  the  many  old  towns  —  "Warwick,  Coven 
try,  Kenil worth,  Stratford-on-Avon  —  which  lie  within 
an  easy  scope  of  Leamington.  And  still  another  church 
presents  itself  to  my  remembrance.  It  is  that  of  Hatton, 
on  which  I  stumbled  in  the  course  of  a  forenoon's  ramble, 
and  paused  a  little  while  to  look  at  it  for  the  sake  of  old 
Dr.  Parr,  who  was  once  its  vicar.  Hatton,  so  far  as  I 
could  discover,  has  no  public-house,  no  shop,  no  con 
tiguity  of  roofs,  (as  in  most  English  villages,  however 
small,)  but  is  merely  an  ancient  neighborhood  of  farm 
houses,  spacious,  and  standing  wide  apart,  each  within  its 
own  precincts,  and  offering  a  most  comfortable  aspect  of 
orchards,  harvest-fields,  barns,  stacks,  and  all  manner  of 
rural  plenty.  It  seemed  to  be  a  community  of  old  set 
tlers,  among  whom  everything  had  been  going  on  prosper 
ously  since  an  epoch  beyond  the  memory  of  man ;  and 
they  kept  a  certain  privacy  among  themselves,  and  dwelt 
on  a  cross-road  at  the  entrance  of  which  was  a  barred- 
gate,  hospitably  open,  but  still  impressing  me  with  a  sense 
of  scarcely  warrantable  intrusion.  After  all,  in  some 
shady  nook  of  those  gentle  Warwickshire  slopes  there 
may  have  been  a  denser  and  more  populous  settlement, 
styled  Hatton,  which  I  never  reached. 

Emerging  from  the  by-road,  and  entering  upon  one 
that  crossed  it  at  right  angles  and  led  to  Warwick,  I 
espied  the  church  of  Dr.  Parr.  Like  the  others  which  I 
have  described,  it  had  a  low  stone  tower,  square,  and 
buttlemented  at  its  summit :  for  all  these  little  churches 
seem  to  have  been  built  on  the  same  model,  and  nearly 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  73 

at  the  same  measurement,  and  have  even  a  greater 
family-likeness  than  the  cathedrals.  As  I  approached, 
the  bell  of  the  tower  (a  remarkably  deep-toned  bell,  con 
sidering  how  small  it  was)  flung  its  voice  abroad,  and  told 
me  that  it  was  noon.  The  church  stands  among  its  graves, 
a  little  removed  from  the  wayside,  quite  apart  from  any 
collection  of  houses,  and  with  no  signs  of  a  vicarage  ;  it 
is  a  good  deal  shadowed  by  trees,  and  not  wholly  desti 
tute  of  ivy.  The  body  of  the  edifice,  unfortunately,  (and 
it  is  an  outrage  which  the  English  churchwardens  are 
fond  of  perpetrating,)  has  been  newly  covered  with  a 
yellowish  plaster  or  wash,  so  as  quite  to  destroy  the 
aspect  of  antiquity,  except  upon  the  tower,  which  wears 
the  dark  gray  hue  of  many  centuries.  The  chancel-win 
dow  is  painted  with  a  representation  of  Christ  upon  the 
Cross,  and  all  the  other  windows  are  full  of  painted  or 
stained  glass,  but  none  of  it  ancient,  nor  (if  it  be  fair  to 
judge  from  without  of  what  ought  to  be  seen  within) 
possessing  any  of  the  tender  glory  that  should  be  the 
inheritance  of  this  branch  of  Art,  revived  from  med 
iaeval  times.  I  stepped  over  the  graves,  and  peeped 
in  at  two  or  three  of  the  windows,  and  saw  the  snug 
interior  of  the  church  glimmering  through  the  many- 
colored  panes,  like  a  show  of  commonplace  objects 
under  the  fantastic  influence  of  a  dream :  for  the  floor 
was  covered  with  modern  pews,  very  like  what  we  may 
see  in  a  New  England  meeting-house,  though,  I  think,  a 
little  more  favorable  than  those  would  be  to  the  quiet 
slumbers  of  the  Hatton  farmers  and  their  families.  Those 
who  slept  under  Dr.  Parr's  preaching  now  prolong  their 
nap,  I  suppose,  in  the  churchyard  round  about,  and  caii 
scarcely  have  drawn  much  spiritual  benefit  from  any 


74  LEAMINGTON  SI  A. 

truths  that  lie  contrived  to  tell  them  in  their  lifetime.  It 
struck  me  as  a  rare  example  (even  where  examples  are 
numerous)  of  a  man  utterly  misplaced,  that  this  enormouft 
scholar,  great  in  the  classic  tongues,  and  inevitably  con 
verting  his  own  simplest  vernacular  into  a  learned  Ian 
guage,  should  have  been  set  up  in  this  homely  pulpit, 
and  ordained  to  preach  salvation  to  a  rustic  audience,  to 
whom  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  how  he  could  ever  have 
Bpoken  one  available  word. 

Almost  always,  in  visiting  such  scenes  as  I  have  been 
attempting  to  describe,  I  had  a  singular  sense  of  having 
been  there  before.  The  ivy-grown  English  churches 
(even  that  of  Bebbington,  the  first  that  I  beheld)  were 
quite  as  familiar  to  me,  when  fresh  from  home,  as  the 
old  wooden  meeting-house  in  Salem,  which  used,  on 
wintry  sabbaths,  to  be  the  frozen  purgatory  of  my  child 
hood.  Tliis  was  a  bewildering,  yet  very  delightful  emo 
tion,  fluttering  about  me  like  a  faint  summer-wind,  and 
filling  my  imagination  with  &  thousand  half-remembran 
ces,  which  looked  as  vivid  as  sunshine,  at  a  side-glance, 
but  faded  quite  away  whenever  I  attempted  to  grasp  and 
define  them.  Of  course,  the  explanation  of  the  mystery 
was,  that  history,  poetry,  and  fiction,  books  of  travel,  and 
the  talk  of  tourists,  had  given  me  pretty  accurate  precon 
ceptions  of  the  common  objects  of  English  scenery,  and 
these,  being  long  ago  vivified  by  a  youthful  fancy,  had 
insensibly  taken  their  places  among  the  images  of  things 
actually  seen.  Yet  the  illusion  was  often  so  powerful, 
that  I  almost  doubted  whether  such  airy  remembrances 
might  not  be  a  sort  of  innate  idea,  the  print  of  a  recollec 
tion  in  some  ancestral  mind,  transmitted,  with  fainter  and 
fainter  impress  through  several  descents,  to  my  own.  I 


LEAMINGTON  SPA.  75 

felt,  indeed,  like  the  stalwart  progenitor  in  person,  return 
ing  to  the  hereditary  haunts  after  more  than  two  hundred 
years,  and  finding  the  church,  the  hall,  the  farm-house, 
the  cottage,  hardly  changed  during  his  long  absence, — • 
the  same  shady  by-paths  and  hedge-lanes,  the  same  veiled 
sky,  and  green  lustre  of  the  lawns  and  fields,  —  while  his 
own  affinities  for  these  things,  a  little  obscured  by  disuse, 
were  reviving  at  every  step. 

An  American  is  not  very  apt  to  love  the  English  peo 
ple,  as  a  whole,  on  whatever  length  of  acquaintance.  I 
fancy  that  they  would  value  our  regard,  and  even  recip 
rocate  it  in  their  ungracious  way,  if  we  could  give  it  to 
them  in  spite  of  all  rebuffs  ;  but  they  are  beset  by  a  curi 
ous  and  inevitable  infelicity,  which  compels  them,  as  it 
were,  to  keep  up  what  they  seem  to  consider  a  whole 
some  bitterness  of  feeling  between  themselves  and  all 
other  nationalities,  especially  that  of  America,  They 
will  never  confess  it;  nevertheless,  it  is  as  essential  a 
tonic  to  them  as  their  bitter  ale.  Therefore  —  and  pos 
sibly,  too,  from  a  similar  narrowness  in  his  own  character 
—  an  American  seldom  feels  quite  as  if  he  were  at  home 
among  the  English  people.  If  he  do  so,  he  has  ceased 
to  be  an  American.  But  it  requires  no  long  residence  to 
make  him  love  their  island,  and  appreciate  it  as  thor 
oughly  as  they  themselves  do.  For  my  part,  I  used  to 
wish  that  we  could  annex  it,  transferring  their  thirty 
millions  of  inhabitants  to  some  convenient  wilderness  in 
the  great  West,  and  putting  half  or  a  quarter  as  many  of 
ourselves  into  their  places.  The  change  would  be  bene 
ficial  to  both  parties.  We,  in  our  dry  atmosphere,  are 
petting  too  nervous,  haggard,  dyspeptic,  extenuated,  un 
substantial,  theoretic,  and  need  to  be  made  grosser.  John 


70  LEAMINGTON   SPA. 

Bull,  on  the  other  hand,  has  grown  bulbous,  long-bodied, 
short-legged,  heavy-witted,  material,  and,  in  a  word,  too 
intensely  English.  In  a  few  more  centuries  he  will  be 
the  earthliest  creature  that  ever  the  earth  saw.  Hereto 
fore  Providence  has  obviated  such  a  result  by  timely 
intermixtures  of  alien  races  with  the  old  English  stock  ; 
so  that  each  successive  conquest  of  England  has  proved  a 
victory  by  the  revivification  and  improvement  of  its  native 
nanhood.  Cannot  America  and  England  hit  upon  some 
^cheme  to  secure  even  greater  advantages  to  both  nations  ? 


ABOUT  WARWICK. 

BETWEEN  bright,  new  Leamington,  the  growth  of  the 
present  century,  and  rusty  Warwick,  founded  by  King 
Cymbeline  in  the  twilight  ages,  a  thousand  years  before 
the  mediaeval  darkness,  there  are  two  roads,  either  of 
which  may  be  measured  by  a  sober-paced  pedestrian  in 
less  than  half  an  hour. 

One  of  these  avenues  flows  out  of  the  midst  of  the 
smart  parades  and  crescents  of  the  former  town,  —  along 
by  hedges  and  beneath  the  shadow  of  great  elms,  past 
stuccoed  Elizabethan  villas  and  way-side  ale-houses,  and 
through  a  hamlet  of  modern  aspect,  —  and  runs  straight 
into  the  principal  thoroughfare  of  Warwick.  The  battle- 
mented  turrets  of  the  castle,  embowered  half-way  up  in 
foliage,  and  the  tall,  slender  tower  of  St.  Mary's  Church, 
rising  from  among  clustered  roofs,  have  been  visible 
almost  from  the  commencement  of  the  walk.  Near  the 
entrance  of  the  town  stands  St.  John's  School-House,  a 
picturesque  old  edifice  of  stone,  with  four  peaked  gables 
in  a  row,  alternately  plain  and  ornamented,  and  wide, 
projecting  windows,  and  a  spacious  and  venerable  porch, 
all  overgrown  with  moss  and  ivy,  and  shut  in  from  the 
world  by  a  high  stone  fence,  not  less  mossy  than  the 
gabled  front.  There  is  an  iron  gate,  through  the  rusty 
}pen-work  of  which  you  see  a  grassy  lawn,  and  almost 


78  ABOUT   WARWICK. 

expect  to  meet  the  shy,  curious  eyes  of  the  little  boys  of 
~»ast  generations,  peeping  forth  from  their  infantile  an 
tiquity  into  the  strangeness  of  our  present  life.  I  find  a 
peculiar  charm  in  these  long-established  English  schools, 
where  the  school-boy  of  to-day  sits  side  by  side,  as  it 
were,  with  his  great-grandsire,  on  the  same  old  benches, 
and  often,  I  believe,  thumbs  a  later,  but  unimproved  edi 
tion  of  the  same  old  grammar  or  arithmetic.  The  new 
fangled  notions  of  a  Yankee  Bchool-committee  would 
madden  many  a  pedagogue,  and  shake  down  the  roof  of 
many  a  time-honored  seat  of  learning,  in  the  mother. 
country. 

At  this  point,  however,  we  will  turn  back,  in  order  to 
"ollow  up  the  other  road  from  Leamington,  which  was  the 
)ne  that  I  loved  best  to  take.  It  pursues  a  straight  and 
evel  course,  bordered  by  wide  gravel- walks  and  overhung 
)y  the  frequent  elm,  with  here  a  cottage  and  there  a  villa, 
>n  one  side  a  wooded  plantation,  and  on  the  other  a  rich 
field  of  grass  or  grain,  until,  turning  at  right  angles,  it 
brings  you  to  an  arched  bridge  over  the  Avon.  Its  para 
pet  is  a  balustrade  carved  out  of  freestone,  into  the  soft 
substance  of  which  a  multitude  of  persons  have  engraved 
their  names  or  initials,  many  of  them  now  illegible,  while 
others,  more  deeply  cut,  are  illuminated  with  fresh  green 
moss.  These  tokens  indicate  a  famous  spot ;  and  casting 
our  eyes  along  the  smooth  gleam  and  shadow  of  the  quiet 
stream,  through  a  vista  of  willows  that  droop  on  eithei 
"side  into  the  water,  we  behold  the  gray  magnificence  of 
Warwick  Castle,  uplifting  itself  among  stately  trees,  and 
rearing  its  turrets  high  above  their  loftiest  branches.  We 
can  scarcely  think  the  scene  real,  so  completely  do  those 
machicolated  towers,  the  long  line  of  battlements,  the 


ABOUT   WARWICK.  79 

massive  buttresses,  the  high-windowed  walls,  shape  out 
our  indistinct  ideas  of  the  antique  time.  It  might  rather 
seem  as  if  the  sleepy  river  (being  Shakspeare's  Avon, 
and  often,  no  doubt,  the  mirror  of  his  gorgeous  visions) 
were  dreaming  now  of  a  lordly  residence  that  stood  hue 
many  centuries  ago ;  and  this  fantasy  is  strengthened, 
when  you  observe  that  the  image  in  the  tranquil  water 
lias  all  the  distinctness  of  the  actual  structure.  Either 
might  be  the  reflection  of  the  other.  Wherever  Time 
has  gnawed  one  of  the  stones,  you  see  the  mark  of  his 
tooth  just  as  plainly  in  the  sunken  reflection.  Each  is  so 
perfect,  that  the  upper  vision  seems  a  castle  in  the  air, 
and  the  lower  one  an  old  stronghold  of  feudalism,  mirac 
ulously  kept  from  decay  in  an  enchanted  river. 

A  ruinous  and  ivy-grown  bridge,  that  projects  from  the 
bank  a  little  on  the  hither  side  of  the  castle,  has  the  effect 
of  making  the  scene  appear  more  entirely  apart  from  the 
every-day  world,  for  it  ends  abruptly  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  —  so  that,  if  a  cavalcade  of  the  knights  and  ladies 
of  romance  should  issue  from  the  old  walls,  they  could 
never  tread  on  earthly  ground,  any  more  than  we,  ap 
proaching  from  the  side  of  modern  realism,  can  overleap 
the  gulf  between  our  domain  and  theirs.  Yet,  if  we 
seek  to  disenchant  ourselves,  it  may  readily  be  done. 
Crossing  the  bridge  on  which  we  stand,  and  passing  a 
Ht'le  farther  on,  we  come  to  the  entrance  of  the  castle, 
abutting  on  the  highway,  and  hospitably  open  at  certain 
.ours  to  all  curious  pilgrims  who  choose  to  disbuise  half 
n  crown  or  so  toward  the  support  of  the  earl's  domestics. 
The  sight  of  that  long  series  of  historic  rooms,  full  of  such 
splendors  and  rarities  as  a  great  English  family  neces 
sarily  gathers  about  itself,  in  its  hereditary  abode,  and  in 


80  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

the  lapse  of  ages,  is  well  worth  the  money,  or  ten  tines 
as  much,  if  indeed  the  value  of  the  spectacle  could  be 
reckoned  in  money's-worth.  But  after  the  attendant  has 
hurried  you  from  end  to  end  of  the  edifice,  repeating  a 
guide-book  by  rote,  and  exorcising  each  successive  hall 
of  its  poetic  glamor  and  witchcraft  by  the  mere  tone  in 
which  he  talks  about  it,  you  will  make  the  doleful  discov 
ery  that  Warwick  Castle  has  ceased  to  be  a  dream.  It 
is  better,  methinks,  to  linger  on  the  bridge,  gazing  at 
Caesar's  Tower  and  Guy's  Tower  in  the  dim  English 
sunshine  above,  and  in  the  placid  Avon  below,  and  still 
keep  them  as  thoughts  in  your  own  mind,  than  climb  to 
their  summits,  or  touch  even  a  stone  of  their  actual  sub 
stance.  They  will  have  all  the  more  reality  for  you,  aa 
stalwart  relics  of  immemorial  time,  if  you  are  reverent 
enough  to  leave  them  in  the  intangible  sanctity  of  a 
poetic  vision. 

From  the  bridge  over  the  Avon,  the  road  passes  in 
front  of  the  castle-gate,  and  soon  enters  the  principal 
street  of  Warwick,  a  little  beyond  St.  John's  School- 
House,  already  described.  Chester  itself,  most  antique 
of  English  towns,  can  hardly  show  quainter  architectural 
shapes  than  many  of  the  buildings  that  border  this  street. 
They  are  mostly  of  the  timber-and-plaster  kind,  with 
bowed  and  decrepit  ridge-poles,  and  a  whole  chronology 
of  various  patchwork  in  their  walls;  their  low-browed 
door-ways  open  upon  a  sunken  floor;  their  projecting 
stories  peep,  as  it  were,  over  one  another's  shoulders,  and 
rise  into  a  multiplicity  of  peaked  gables ;  they  have  curi 
ous  windows,  breaking  out  irregularly  all  over  the  house, 
some  even  in  the  roof,  set  in  their  own  little  peaks,  open 
ing  lattice-wise,  and  furnished  with  twenty  small  panes 


ABOUT  WARWICK.  8'. 

or  lozenge-shaped  glass.  The  architecture  of  these  edi 
fices  (a  visible  oaken  framework,  showing  the  whoh 
skeleton  of  the  house,  —  as  if  a  man's  bones  should  bw 
arranged  on  his  outside,  and  his  flesh  seen  through  the 
interstices)  is  often  imitated  by  modern  builders,  and 
with  sufficiently  picturesque  effect.  The  objection  is, 
that  such  houses,  like  all  imitations  of  by-gone  styles, 
have  an  air  o£  affectation ;  they  do  not  seem  to  be  built 
in  earnest ;  they  are  no  better  than  playthings,  or  over 
grown  baby-houses,  in  which  nobody  should  be  expected 
to  encounter  the  serious  realities  of  either  birth  or  death. 
Besides,  originating  nothing,  we  leave  no  fashions  for 
another  age  to  copy,  when  we  ourselves  shall  have  grown 
antique. 

Old  as  it  looks,  all  this  portion  of  Warwick  has  over 
brimmed,  as  it  were,  from  the  original  settlement,  being 
outside  of  the  ancient  wall.  The  street  soon  runs  under 
an  arched  gateway,  with  a  church  or  some  other  vener 
able  structure  above  it,  and  admits  us  into  the  heart  of 
the  town.  At  one  of  my  first  visits,  I  witnessed  a  mili 
tary  display.  A  regiment  of  Warwickshire  militia,  prob 
ably  commanded  by  the  Earl,  was  going  through  its  drill 
in  the  market-place ;  and  on  the  collar  of  one  of  the 
officers  was  embroidered  the  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff, 
which  has  been  the  cognizance  of  the  Warwick  earldom 
from  time  immemorial.  The  soldiers  were  sturdy  young 
men,  with  the  simple,  stolid,  yet  kindly,  faces  of  English 
rustics,  looking  exceedingly  well  in  a  body,  but  slouching 
into  a  yeoman-like  carriage  and  appearance,  the  moment 
they  were  dismissed  from  drill.  Squads  of  them  weri, 
distributed  everywhere  about  the  streets,  and  sentinels 
were  posted  at  various  points ;  and  I  saw  a  sergeant, 


82  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

with  a  great  key  in  his  hand,  (big  enough  tc  have 
the  key  of  the  castle's  main  entrance  when  the  gate  was 
thickest  and  heaviest,)  apparently  setting  a  guard.  Thus, 
centuries  after  feudal  times  are  past,  we  find  warriors 
still  gathering  under  the  old  castle-walls,  and  commanded 
by  a  feudal  lord,  just  as  in  the  days  of  the  King-Maker, 
who,  no  doubt,  often  mustered  his  retainers  in  the  same 
market-place  where  I  beheld  this  modern  regiment. 

The  interior  of  the  town  wears  a  less  old-fashioned 
aspect  than  the  suburbs  through  which  we  approach  it ; 
and  the  High  Street  has  shops  with  modern  plate-glass, 
and  buildings  with  stuccoed  fronts,  exhibiting  as  few  pro 
jections  to  hang  a  thought  or  sentiment  upon  as  if  an 
architect  of  to-day  had  planned  them.  And,  indeed,  so 
far  as  their  surface  goes,  they  are  perhaps  new  enough 
to  stand  unabashed  in  an  American  street ;  but  behind 
these  renovated  faces,  with  their  monotonous  lack  of  ex 
pression,  there  is  probably  the  substance  of  the  same  old 
town  that  wore  a  Gothic  exterior  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  street  is  an  emblem  of  England  itself.  What  seems 
new  in  it  is  chiefly  a  skilful  and  fortunate  adaptation  of 
what  such  a  people  as  ourselves  would  destroy.  The 
new  things  are  based  and  supported  on  sturdy  old  things, 
and  derive  a  massive  strength  from  their  deep  and  im 
memorial  foundations,  though  with  such  limitations  and 
impediments  as  only  an  Englishman  could  endure.  But 
he  likes  to  feel  the  weight  of  all  the  past  upon  his  back  ; 
and,  moreover,  the  antiquity  that  overburdens  him  has 
taken  root  in  his  being,  and  has  grown  to  be  rather  a 
hump  than  a  pack,  so  that  there  is  no  getting  rid  of  it 
without  tearing  his  whole  structure  to  pieces.  In  my 
judgment,  as  he  appears  to  be  sufficiently  comfortable 


ABOUT  WARWICK.  83 

ander  the  mouldy  accretion,  he  had  bettor  stumble  on 
with  it  as  long  as  he  can.  He  presents  a  spectacle 
which  is  by  no  means  without  its  charm  for  a  disinter 
ested  and  unincumbered  observer. 

When  the  old  edifice,  or  the  antiquated  custom  or  in 
stitution,  appears  in  its  pristine  form,  without  any  attempt 
at  intermarrying  it  with  modern  fashions,  an  American 
cannot  but  admire  the  picturesque  effect  produced  by  the 
sudden  cropping  up  of  an  apparently  dead-and-buried 
state  of  society  into  the  actual  present,  of  which  he  is 
liimself  a  part.  We  need  not  go  far  in  Warwick  without 
encountering  an  instance  of  the  kind.  Proceeding  west 
ward  through  the  town,  we  find  ourselves  confronted  by 
a  huge  mass  of  natural  rock,  hewn  into  something  like 
arcliitectural  shape,  and  penetrated  by  a  vaulted  passage, 
which  may  well  have  been  one  of  King  Cymbeline's 
original  gateways ;  and  on  the  top  of  the  rock,  over  the 
archway,  sits  a  small,  old  church,  communicating  with  an 
ancient  edifice,  or  assemblage  of  edifices,  that  look  down 
from  a  similar  elevation  on  the  side  of  the  street.  A 
range  of  trees  half  hides  the  latter  establishment  from 
the  sun.  It  presents  a  curious  and  venerable  speci 
men  of  the  timber-and-plaster  style  of  building,  in 
which  some  of  the  finest  old  houses  in  England  are 
constructed;  the  front  projects  into  porticos  and  vesti 
bules,  and  rises  into  many  gables,  some  in  a  row, 
and  others  crowning  semi-detached  portions  of  the  struc 
ture  ;  the  windows  mostly  open  on  hinges,  but  show  a 
delightful  irregularity  of  shape  and  position ;  a  multi 
plicity  of  chimneys  break  through  the  roof  at  their  own 
will,  or,  at  least,  without  any  settled  purpose  of  the  archr 
tect.  The  whole  affair  looks  very  old,  —  FO  old.  indeed 


81  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

that  the  front  bulges  forth,  as  if  the  timber  framework 
were  a  little  weary,  at  last,  of  standing  erect  so  long  ; 
but  the  state  of  repair  is  so  perfect,  and  there  is  such  an 
indescribable  aspect  of  continuous  vitality  within  the  sys 
tem  of  this  aged  house,  that  you  feel  confident  that  there 
may  be  safe  shelter  yet,  and  perhaps  for  centuries  to 
come,  under  its  time-honored  roof.  And  on  a  bench, 
sluggishly  enjoying  the  sunshine,  and  looking  into  the 
street  of  Warwick  as  from  a  life  apart,  a  few  old  men 
are  generally  to  be  seen,  wrapped  in  long  cloaks,  on  which 
you  may  detect  the  glistening  of  a  silver  badge  represent 
ing  the  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff.  These  decorated  worthies 
are  some  of  the  twelve  brethren  of  Leicester's  Hospital, 
—  a  community  which  subsists  to-day  under  the  identical 
modes  that  were  established  for  it  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  of  course  retains  many  features  of  a  social 
life  that  has  vanished  almost  everywhere  else. 

The  edifice  itself  dates  from  a  much  older  period  than 
the  charitable  institution  of  which  it  is  now  the  home. 
It  was  the  seat  of  a  religious  fraternity  far  back  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  continued  so  till  Henry  VIII.  turned 
all  the  priesthood  of  England  out-of-doors,  and  put  the 
most  unscrupulous  of  his  favorites  into  their  vacant 
abodes.  In  many  instances,  the  old  monks  had  chosen 
the  sites  of  their  domiciles  so  well,  and  built  them  on 
such  a  broad  system  of  beauty  and  convenience,  that 
their  lay-occupants  found  it  easy  to  convert  them  into 
stately  and  comfortable  homes ;  and  as  such  they  still 
exist,  with  something  of  the  antique  reverence  lingering 
about  them.  The  structure  now  before  us  seems  to  have 
been  first  granted  to  Sir  Nicholas  Lestrange,  who  per 
haps  intended,  like  other  men.  to  establish  his  household 


ABOUT  WARWICK.  &* 

gods  m  the  niches  whence  he  had  thrown  down  the  im 
ages  of  saints,  and  to  lay  his  hearth  where  an  altar  had 
stood.  But  there  was  probably  a  natural  reluctance  in 
those  days  (when  Catholicism,  so  lately  repudiated,  must 
needs  have  retained  an  influence  over  all  but  the  most 
obdurate  characters)  to  bring  one's  hopes  of  domestic 
>rosperity  and  a  fortunate  lineage  into  direct  hostility 
with  the  awful  claims  of  the  ancient  religion.  At  all 
events,  there  is  still  a  superstitious  idea,  betwixt  a  fantasy 
and  a  belief,  that  the  possession  of  former  Church-prop 
erty  has  drawn  a  curse  along  with  it,  not  only  among  the 
posterity  of  those  to  whom  it  was  originally  granted,  but 
wherever  it  has  subsequently  been  transferred,  even  if 
honestly  bought  and  paid  for.  There  are  families,  now 
inhabiting  some  of  the  beautiful  old  abbeys,  who  appear 
to  indulge  a  species  of  pride  in  recording  the  strange 
deaths  and  ugly  shapes  of  misfortune  that  have  occurred 
among  their  predecessors,  and  may  be  supposed  likely 
to  dog  their  own  pathway  down  the  ages  of  futurity. 
Whether  Sir  Nicholas  Lestrange,  in  the  beef-eating  days 
of  Old  Harry  and  Elizabeth,  was  a  nervous  man,  and 
subject  to  apprehensions  of  this  kind,  I  cannoi  tell ;  but 
it  is  certain  that  he  speedily  rid  himself  of  the  spoils  of 
the  Church,  and  that,  within  twenty  years  afterwards, 
the  edifice  became  the  property  of  the  famous  Dudley, 
Earl  of  Leicester,  brother  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick.  He 
devoted  the  ancient  religious  precinct  to  a  charitable  use, 
endowing  it  with  an  ample  revenue,  and  making  it  the 
perpetual  home  of  twelve  poor,  honest,  and  war-broken 
soldiers,  mostly  his  own  retainers,  and  natives  either  of 
Warwickshire  or  Gloucestershire.  These  veterans,  or 
others  wonderfully  like  them,  still  occupy  their  monkish 


8G  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

dormitories  and  haunt  the  time-darkened  corridors  and 
galleries  of  the  hospital,  leading  a  life  of  old-fashioned 
comfort,  wearing  the  old-fashioned  cloaks,  and  burnishing 
the  identical  silver  badges  which  the  Earl  of  Leicester 
ga\  e  to  the  original  twelve.  He  is  said  to  have  been  a 
bad  man  in  his  day;  but  he  has  succeeded  in  prolonging 
one  good  deed  into  what  was  to  him  a  distant  future. 

On  the  projecting  story,  over  the  arched  entrance,  there 
is  the  date,  1571,  and  several  coats-of-arms,  either  the 
Earl's  or  those  of  his  kindred,  and  immediately  above  the 
ioor-way  a  stone  sculpture  of  the  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff. 

Passing  through  the  arch,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  quad 
rangle,  or  enclosed  court,  such  as  always  formed  the  cen 
tral  part  of  a  great  family  residence  in  Queen  Elizabeth's 
time,  and  earlier.  There  can  hardly  be  a  more  perfect 
specimen  of  such  an  establishment  than  Leicester's  Hos 
pital.  The  quadrangle  is  a  sort  of  sky-roofed  hall,  to 
which  there  is  convenient  access  from  all  parts  of  the 
house.  The  four  inner  fronts,  with  their  high,  steep 
roofs  and  sharp  gables,  look  into  it  from  antique  windows, 
and  through  open  corridors  and  galleries  along  the  sides ; 
and  there  seems  to  be  a  richer  display  of  architectural 
devices  and  ornaments,  quainter  can-ings  in  oak,  and 
more  fantastic  shapes  of  the  timber  framework,  than  on 
the  side  toward  the  street.  On  the  wall  opposite  the 
arched  entrance  are  the  following  inscriptions,  comprising 
such  moral  rules,  I  presume,  as  were  deemed  most  essen 
tial  for  the  daily  observance  of  the  community:  "  &)OU- 

or  all  Jttcn"  —  "jFeac  <£crtr"  —  "ftonor  tije 

Stllfi  "  —  "  Hot)?  tlje  JSCOtfjerfjOOtl  "  ;  and  again, 
as  if  tliis  latter  injunction  needed  emphasis  and  repeti 
tion  among  a  household  of  aged  people  soured  with  tho 


ABOUT  WARWICK.  87 

fiar<l  fortune  of  their  previous  lives,  —  u  330  lit  lift  1 1> 
affeCtt'OllCft  0110  tO  another."  One  sentence,  over  a 
door  communicating  with  the  Master's  side  of  the  house, 
is  addressed  to  that  dignitary,  —  "  Jfyt  tljflt  tUlttf) 
OfceC  men  mUSt  fie  jUSt."  All  these  are  charac 
tered  in  old  English  letters,  and  form  part  of  the  elabo- 
rate  ornamentation  of  the  house.  Everywhere  —  on  the 
walls,  over  windows  and  doors,  and  at  all  points  where 
there  is  room  to  place  them  —  appear  escutcheons  of 
arms,  cognizances,  and  crests,  emblazoned  in  their  proper 
colors,  and  illuminating  the  ancient  quadrangle  with  their 
splendor.  One  of  these  devices  is  a  large  image  of  a 
porcupine  on  an  heraldic  wreath,  being  the  crest  of  the 
Lords  de  Lisle.  But  especially  is  the  cognizance  of  the 
Bear  and  Ragged  Staff  repeated  over  and  over,  and  over 
again  and  again,  in  a  great  variety  of  attitudes,  at  full- 
length  and  half-length,  in  paint  and  in  oaken  sculpture, 
in  bas-relief  and  rounded  image.  The  founder  of  the 
hospital  was  certainly  disposed  to  reckon  his  own  benefi 
cence  as  among  the  hereditary  glories  of  his  race  ;  and 
had  he  lived  and  died  a  half-century  earlier,  he  would 
have  kept  up  an  old  Catholic  custom  by  enjoining  the 
twelve  bedesmen  to  pray  for  the  welfare  of  his  soul. 

At  my  first  visit,  some  of  the  brethren  were  seated  on 
the  bench  outside  of  the  edifice,  looking  down  into  the 
street ;  but  they  did  not  vouchsafe  me  a  word,  and  seemed 
FO  estranged  from  modern  life,  so  enveloped  in  antique 
customs  and  old-fashioned  cloaks,  that  to  converse  with 
them  would  have  been  like  shouting  across  the  gulf  be 
tween  our  age  and  Queen  Elizabeth's.  So  I  passed  into 
the  quadrangle,  and  found  it  quite  solitary,  except  that  a 
plain  and  neat  old  woman  happened  to  be  crossing  it. 


88  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

will  an  aspect  of  business  and  carefulness  that  bespoke 
her  JL  woman  of  this  world,  and  not  merely  a  shadow  of 
the  past.  Asking  her  if  I  could  come  in,  she  answered 
very  readily  and  civilly  that  I  might,  and  said  that  I  was 
free  to  look  about  me,  hinting  a  hope,  however,  that  I 
would  not  open  the  private  doors  of  the  brotherhood,  as 
some  visitors  were  in  the  habit  of  doing.  Under  hei 
guidance,  I  went  into  what  was  formerly  the  great  hall 
of  the  establishment,  where  King  James  I.  had  once 
been  feasted  by  an  Earl  of  Warwick,  as  is  commemorated 
by  an  inscription  on  the  cobwebbed  and  dingy  wall.  It 
is  a  very  spacious  and  barn-like  apartment,  with  a  brick 
floor,  and  a  vaulted  roof,  the  rafters  of  which  are  oaken 
beams,  wonderfully  carved,  but  hardly  visible  in  the  duski 
ness  that  broods  aloft.  The  hall  may  have  made  a  splen 
did  appearance,  when  it  was  decorated  with  rich  tapestry, 
and  illuminated  with  chandeliers,  cressets,  and  torches 
glistening  upon  silver  dishes,  where  King  James  sat  at 
supper  among  his  brilliantly  dressed  nobles;  but  it  has 
come  to  base  uses  in  these  latter  days,  —  being  improved, 
in  Yankee  phrase,  as  a  brewery  and  wash-room,  and  as 
a  cellar  for  the  brethren's  separate  allotments  of  coal. 

The  old  lady  here  left  me  to  myself,  and  I  returned 
into  the  quadrangle.  It  was  very  quiet,  very  handsome, 
in  its  own  obsolete  style,  and  must  be  an  exceedingly 
comfortable  place  for  the  old  people  to  lounge  in,  when 
the  inclement  winds  render  it  inexpedient  to  walk  abroad 
There  are  shrubs  against  the  wall,  on  one  side ;  and  on 
another  h  a  cloistered  walk,  adorned  with  stags'  heads 
and  antlers,  and  running  beneath  a  covered  gallery,  up  to 
which  ascends  a  balustraded  staircase.  In  the  portion  of 
the  edifice  opposite  the  entrance-arch  are  the  apartment?, 


ABOUT  WARWICK.  3VJ 

of  the  Master ;  and  looking  into  the  window,  (as  the  old 
woman,  at  no  request  of  mine,  had  specially  informed  me 
that  I  might,)  I  saw  a  low,  but  vastly  comfortable  parlor, 
very  handsomely  furnished,  and  altogether  a  luxurious 
place.  It  had  a  fireplace  with  an  immense  arch,  the 
antique  breadth  of  which  extended  almost  from  wall  to 
wall  of  the  room,  though  now  fitted  up  in  such  a  way 
that  the  modern  coal-grate  looked  very  diminutive  in  the 
midst.  Gazing  into  this  pleasant  interior,  it  seemed  to 
me,  that,  among  these  venerable  surroundings,  availing 
himself  of  whatever  was  good  in  former  things,  and  eking 
out  their  imperfection  with  the  results  of  modern  ingenu 
ity,  the  Master  might  lead  a  not  unenviable  life.  On 
the  cloistered  side  of  the  quadrangle,  where  the  dark 
oak  panels  made  the  enclosed  space  dusky,  I  beheld  a 
curtained  window  reddened  by  a  great  blaze  from  within, 
and  heard  the  bubbling  and  squeaking  of  something  — 
doubtless  very  nice  and  succulent  —  that  was  being 
cooked  at  the  kitchen-fire.  I  think,  indeed,  that  a  whiff 
or  two  of  the  savory  fragrance  reached  my  nostrils ;  at 
all  events,  the  impression  grew  upon  me  that  Leicester's 
Hospital  is  one  of  the  jolliest  old  domiciles  in  England. 
I  was  about  to  depart,  when  another  old  woman,  very 
plainly  dressed,  but  fat,  comfortable,  and  with  a  cheerful 
twinkle  in  her  eyes,  came  in  through  the  arch,  and 
looked  curiously  at  me.  This  repeated  apparition  of  the 
gentle  sex  (though  by  no  means  under  its  loveliest  guise) 
had  still  an  agreeable  effect  in  modifying  my  ideas  of  an 
institution  which  I  had  supposed  to  be  of  a  stern  and 
monastic  character.  She  asked  whether  I  wished  to  see 
the  hospital,  and  said  that  the  porter,  whose  office  it  was 
to  attend  to  visitors,  was  dead,  and  would  be  buried  that 


$0  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

very  day,  so  that  the  whole  establishment  could  not  con* 
veniently  be  shown  me.  She  kindly  invited  me,  how 
ever,  to  visit  the  apartment  occupied  by  her  husband  and 
herself;  so  I  followed  her  up  the  antique  staircase,  along 
the  gallery,  and  into  a  small,  oak-panelled  parlor,  where 
sat  an  old  man  in  a  long  blue  garment,  who  arose  and 
saluted  me  with  m»ch  courtesy.  He  seemed  a  very  quiet 
person,  and  yet  had  a  look  of  travel  and  adventure,  and 
gray  experience,  such  as  I  could  have  fancied  in  a  palmer 
of  ancient  times,  who  might  likewise  have  worn  a  similar 
costume.  The  little  room  was  carpeted  and  neatly  fur 
nished  ;  a  portrait  of  its  occupant  was  hanging  on  the 
wall ;  and.  on  a  table  were  two  swords  crossed,  —  one, 
probably,  his  own  battle-weapon,  and  the  other,  which  I 
drew  half  out  of  the  scabbard,  had  an  inscription  on  the 
blade,  purporting  that  it  had  been  taken  from  the  field  of 
Waterloo.  My  kind  old  hostess  was  anxious  to  exhibit 
all  the  particulars  of  their  housekeeping,  and  led  me  into 
the  bedroom,  which  was  in  the  nicest  order,  with  a  snow- 
white  quilt  upon  the  bed;  and  in  a  little  intervening 
room  was  a  washing  and  bathing  apparatus,  —  a  conven 
ience  (judging  from  the  personal  aspect  and  atmosphere 
of  such  parties)  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  the  humbler 
ranks  of  British  life. 

The  old  soldier  and  his  wife  both  seemed  glad  of  some 
body  to  talk  with  ;  but  the  good  woman  availed  herself 
of  the  privilege  far  more  copiously  than  the  veteran  him- 
Boif,  insomuch  that  he  felt  it  expedient  to  give  her  an 
occasional  nudge  with  his  elbow  in  her  well-padded  ribs. 
"  Don't  you  be  so  talkative  ! "  quoth  he  ;  and,  indeed,  he 
could  hardly  .find  space  for  a  word,  and  quite  as  little 
after  his  admonition  as  before.  Her  nimble  tongue  ran 


ABOUT   WARWICK.  #1 

ovei  the  whole  system  of  life  in  the  hospital.  The  breth 
ren,  she  said,  had  a  yearly  stipend,  (the  amount  of  which 
she  did  not  mention,)  and  such  decent  lodgings  as  I  saw, 
and  some  other  advantages,  free ;  and,  instead  of  being 
pestered  with  a  great  many  rules,  and  made  to  dine  to 
gether  at  a  great  table,  they  could  manage  their  little 
household  matters  as  they  liked,  buying  their  own  din 
ii(:rs,  and  having  them  cooked  in  the  general  kitchen,  and 
eating  them  snugly  in  their  own  parlors.  "And,"  added 
dhe,  rightly  deeming  this  the  crowning  privilege,  "  with 
the  Master's  permission,  they  can  have  their  wives  to 
take  care  of  them ;  and  no  harm  comes  of  it ;  and  what 
more  can  an  old  man  desire  ? "  It  was  evident  enough 
that  the  good  dame  found  herself  in  what  she  considered 
very  rich  clover,  and,  moreover,  had  plenty  of  small  occu 
pations  to  keep  her  from  getting  rusty  and  dull ;  but  the 
veteran  impressed  me  as  deriving  far  less  enjoyment  from 
the  monotonous  ease,  without  fear  of  change  or  hope  of 
improvement,  that  had  followed  upon  thirty  years  of  peril 
and  vicissitude.  I  fancied,  too,  that,  while  pleased  with 
the  novelty  of  a  stranger's  visit,  he  was  still  a  little  shy 
of  becoming  a  spectacle  for  the  stranger's  curiosity ;  for, 
if  he  chose  to  be  morbid  about  the  matter,  the  establish 
ment  was  but  an  almshouse,  in  spite  of  its  old-fashioned 
magnificence,  and  his  fine  blue  cloak  only  a  pauper's  gar 
ment,  with  a  silver  badge  on  it  that  perhaps  galled  h' 
shoulder.  In  truth,  the  badge  and  the  peculiar  garb 
though  quite  in  accordance  with  the  manners  of  the  Eau 
of  Leicester's  age,  are  repugnant  to  modern  prejudices, 
and  might  fitly  and  humanely  be  abolished. 

A  year  or  two  afterwards  I  paid  another  visit  to  tho 
hospital,  and  found  a  new  porter  established  in  office,  and 


92  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

already  capable  of  talking  like  a  guide-book  about  the 
history,  antiquities,  and  present  condition  of  the  charity. 
He  informed  me  that  the  twelve  brethren  are  selected 
from  among  old  soldiers  of  good  character,  whose  other 
resources  must  not  exceed  an  income  of  five  pounds 
thus  excluding  all  commissioned  officers,  whose  half-pay 
would  of  course  be  more  than  that  amount.  They  recehe 
from  the  hospital  an  annuity  of  eighty  pounds  each,  be 
sides  their  apartments,  a  garment  of  fine  blue  cloth,  an 
annual  abundance  of  ale,  and  a  privilege  at  the  kitchen- 
fire  ;  so  that,  considering  the  class  from  which  they  are 
taken,  they  may  well  reckon  themselves  among  the  for 
tunate  of  the  earth.  Furthermore,  they  are  invested 
with  political  rights,  acquiring  a  vote  for  member  of  Par 
liament  in  virtue  either  of  their  income  or  brotherhood. 
On  the  other  hand,  as  regards  their  personal  freedom  or 
conduct,  they  are  subject  to  a  supervision  which  the  Mas 
ter  of  the  hospital  might  render  extremely  annoying, 
were  he  so  inclined ;  but  the  military  restraint  under 
which  they  have  spent  the  active  portion  of  their  lives 
makes  it  easier  for  them  to  endure  the  domestic  discipline 
here  imposed  upon  their  age.  The  porter  bore  his  testi 
mony  (whatever  were  its  value)  to  their  being  as  con 
tented  and  happy  as  such  a  set  of  old  people  could 
possibly  be,  and  affirmed  that  they  spent  much  time 
'n  burnishing  their  silver  badges,  and  were  as  proud  of 
them  as  a  nobleman  of  his  star.  These  badges,  by-the- 
by,  except  one  that  was  stolen  and  replaced  in  Queen 
Anne's  time,  are  the  very  same  that  decorated  the  orig 
inal  twelve  brethren. 

I  have  seldom  met  with  a  better  guide  than  my  friend 
the  porter.     He  appeared  to  take  a  genuine  interest  in 


ABOUT   WARWICK.  93 

the  peculiarities  of  the  establishment,  and  yet  had  an 
existence  apart  from  them,  so  that  he  could  the  better 
estimate  what  those  peculiarities  were.  To  be  sure,  his 
knowledge  and  observation  were  confined  to  external 
things,  but,  so  far,  had  a  sufficiently  extensive  scope. 
He  led  me  up  the  staircase  and  exhibited  portions  of  the 
timber  framework  of  the  edifice  that  are  reckoned  to  be 
eight  or  nine  hundred  years  old,  and  are  still  neither 
worm-eaten  nor  decayed ;  and  traced  out  what  had  been 
a  great  hall,  in  the  days  of  the  Catholic  fraternity,  though 
its  area  is  now  filled  up  with  the  apartments  of  the  twelve 
brethren ;  and  pointed  to  ornaments  of  sculptured  oak, 
done  in  an  ancient  religious  style  of  art,  but  hardly  vis 
ible  amid  the  vaulted  dimness  of  the  roof.  Thence  we 
went  to  the  chapel  —  the  Gothic  church  which  I  noted 
several  pages  back  —  surmounting  the  gateway  that 
stretches  half  across  the  street.  Here  the  brethren 
attend  daily  prayer,  and  have  each  a  prayer-book  of 
the  finest  paper,  with  a  fair,  large  type  for  their  old 
eyes.  The  interior  of  the  chapel  is  very  plain,  with  a 
picture  of  no  merit  for  an  altar-piece,  and  a  single  old 
pane  of  painted  glass  in  the  great  eastern  window,  rep 
resenting  —  no  saint,  nor  angel,  as  is  customary  in  such 
cases  —  but  that  grim  sinner,  the  Earl  of  Leicester. 
Nevertheless,  amid  so  many  tangible  proofs  of  his  human 
sympathy,  one  comes  to  doubt  whether  the  Earl  could 
liMve  been  such  a  hardened  reprobate,  after  all. 

We  ascended  the  tower  of  the  chapel,  and  looked 
down  between  its  battlements  into  the  street,  a  hundred 
feet  below  us ;  while  clambering  half-way  up  were  fox 
glove-flowers,  weeds,  small  shrubs,  and  tufts  of  grass,  that 
had  rooted  themselves  into  the  roughnesses  of  the  stone 


94  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

foundation.  Far  around  us  lay  a  rich  and  lovely  English 
landscape,  with  many  a  church-spire  and  noble  country- 
seat,  and  several  objects  of  high  historic  interest.  Edge 
Hill,  where  the  Puritans  defeated  Charles  L,  is  in  sight 
on  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  and  much  nearer  stands  the 
house  where  Cromwell  lodged  on  tho  night  before 
the  battle.  Right  under  our  eyes,  and  half-enveloping 
the  town  with  its  high-shouldering  wall,  so  that  all  the 
closely  compacted  streets  seemed  but  a  precinct  of  the 
estate,  was  the  Earl  of  Warwick's  delightful  park,  a 
wide  extent  of  sunny  lawns,  interspersed  with  broad 
contiguities  of  forest-shade.  Some  of  the  cedars  of  Leb 
anon  were  there,  —  a  growth  of  trees  in  which  the  War 
wick  family  take  an  hereditary  pride.  The  two  highest 
towers  of  the  castle  heave  themselves  up  out  of  a  mass 
of  foliage,  and  look  down  in  a  lordly  manner  upon  the 
plebeian  roofs  of  the  town,  a  part  of  which  are  slate-cov 
ered,  (these  are  the  modern  houses,)  and  a  part  are 
coated  with  old  red  tiles,  denoting  the  more  ancient 
edifices.  A  hundred  and  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago, 
a  great  fire  destroyed  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
toAvn,  and  doubtless  annihilated  many  structures  of  a 
remote  antiquity ;  at  least,  there  was  a  possibility  of 
very  old  houses  in  the  long  past  of  Warwick,  which 
King  Cymbeline  is  said  to  have  founded  in  the  year 
ONE  of  the  Christian  era ! 

And  this  historic  fact  or  poetic  fiction,  whichever  it 
may  be,  brings  to  mind  a  more  indestructible  reality  than 
any  tiling  else  that  has  occurred  within  the  present  field 
of  our  vision;  though  this  includes  the  scene  of  Guy  of 
Warwick's  legendary  exploits,  and  some  of  those  of  the 
Round  Table,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Battle  of  Edge  Hill. 


ABOUT  WARWICK.  95 

For  perhaps  it  was  in  the  landscape  now  under  our  eyes 
that  Posthumus  wandered  with  the  King's  daughter,  the 
sweet,  chaste,  faithful,  and  courageous  Imogen,  the  ten- 
derest  and  womanliest  woman  that  Shakspeare  ever 
made  immortal  in  the  world.  The  silver  Avon,  which 
we  see  flowing  so  quietly  by  the  gray  castle,  may  have 
held  their  images  in  its  bosom. 

The  day,  though  it  began  brightly,  had  long  been  over 
cast,  and  the  clouds  now  spat  down  a  few  spiteful  drops 
upon  us,  besides  that  the  east-wind  was  very  chill;  so 
we  descended  the  winding  tower-stair,  and  went  next  into 
the  garden,  one  side  of  which  is  shut  in  by  almost  the 
only  remaining  portion  of  the  old  city-wall.  A  part  of 
the  garden-ground  is  devoted  to  grass  and  shrubbery,  and 
permeated  by  gravel- walks,  in  the  centre  of  one  of  which 
is  a  beautiful  stone  vase  of  Egyptian  sculpture,  that  for 
merly  stood  on  the  top  of  a  Nilometer,  or  graduated  pillar 
for  measuring  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  River  Nile.  On 
the  pedestal  is  a  Latin  inscription  by  Dr.  Parr,  who  (his 
vicarage  of  Hatton  being  so  close  at  hand)  was  probably 
often  the  Master's  guest,  and  smoked  his  interminable 
pipe  along  these  garden-walks.  Of  the  vegetable-garden, 
which  lies  adjacent,  the  lion's  share  is  appropriated  to 
the  Master,  and  twelve  small,  separate  patches  to  the 
individual  brethren,  who  cultivate  them  at  their  own 
judgment  and  by  their  own  labor ;  and  their  beans  and 
cauliflowers  have  a  better  flavor,  I  doubt  not,  than  if 
they  had  received  them  directly  from  the  dead  hand  of 
the  Earl  of  Leicester,  like  the  rest  of  their  food.  In 
the  farther  part  of  the  garden  is  an  arbor  for  the  old 
men's  pleasure  and  convenience,  and  I  should  like  well 
to  sit  down  among  them  there,  and  find  out  what  is  really 


90  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

the  bitter  and  the  sweet  of  such  a  sort  of  life.  As  for 
the  old  gentlemen  themselves,  they  put  me  queerly  in 
mind  of  the  Salem  Custom-House,  and  the  venerable 
personages  whom  I  found  so  quietly  at  anchor  there. 

The  Master's  residence,  forming  one  entire  side  of  the 
quadrangle,  fronts  on  the  garden,  and  wears  an  aspect  at 
once  stately  and  homely.  It  can  hardly  have  undergone 
any  perceptible  change  within  three  centuries;  but  the 
garden,  into  which  its  old  windows  look,  has  probably 
put  off  a  great  many  eccentricities  and  quaintnesses,  in 
the  way  of  cunningly  clipped  shrubbery,  since  the  gar 
dener  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign  threw  down  his  rusty 
shears  and  took  his  departure.  The  present  Master's 
name  is  Harris;  he  is  a  descendant  of  the  founder's 
family,  a  gentleman  of  independent  fortune,  and  a  clergy 
man  of  the  Established  Church,  as  the  regulations  of  the 
hospital  require  him  to  be.  I  know  not  what  are  his 
official  emoluments  ;  but,  according  to  all  English  pre 
cedent,  an  ancient  charitable  fund  is  certain  to  be  held 
directly  for  the  behoof  of  those  who  administer  it,  and 
perhaps  incidentally,  in  a  moderate  way,  for  the  nominal 
beneficiaries;  and,  in  the  case  before  us,  the  twelve 
brethren  being  so  comfortably  provided  for,  the  Master 
is  likely  to  be  at  least  as  comfortable  as  all  the  twelve 
together.  Yet  I  ought  not,  even  in  a  distant  land,  to  fling 
an  idle  gibe  against  a  gentleman  of  whom  I  really  know 
nothing,  except  that  the  people  under  his  charge  bear  all 
possible  tokens  of  being  tended  and  cared  for  as  sedu 
lously  as  if  each  of  them  sat  by  a  warm  fireside  of  his 
own,  with  a  daughter  bustling  round  the  hearth  to  make 
ready  his  porridge  and  his  titbits.  It  is  delightful  to 
Ihink  of  the  good  life  which  a  suitable  man,  in  the 


ABOUT  WARWICK.  07 

Master's  position,  has  an  opportunity  to  lead,  —  linked  to 
time-honored  customs,  welded  in  with  an  ancient  sys 
tem,  never  dreaming  of  radical  change,  and  bringing  all 
the  mellowness  and  richness  of  the  past  down  into  these 
railway-days,  which  do  not  compel  him  or  his  community 
to  move  a  whit  quicker  than  of  yore.  Everybody  can 
appreciate  the  advantages  of  going  ahead  ;  it  might  be 
well,  sometimes,  to  think  whether  there  is*  not  a  word  01 
two  to  be  said  in  favor  of  standing  still,  or  going  to  sleep. 
From  the  garden  we  went  into  the  kitchen,  where  the 
fire  was  burning  hospitably,  and  diffused  a  genial  warmth 
far  and  wide,  together  with  the  fragrance  of  some  old 
English  roast-beef,  which,  I  think,  must  at  that  moment 
have  been  done  nearly  to  a  turn.  The  kitchen  is  a  lofty, 
spacious,  and  noble  room,  partitioned  off  round  the  fire 
place,  by  a  sort  of  semicircular  oaken  screen,  or  rather, 
an  arrangement  of  heavy  and  high-backed  settles,  with 
an  ever  open  entrance  between  them,  on  either  side  of 
which  is  the  omnipresent  image  of  the  Bear  and  Ragged 
Staff,  three  feet  high,  and  excellently  carved  in  oak,  now 
black  with  time  and  unctuous  kitchen-smoke.  The  pon 
derous  mantel-piece,  likewise  of  carved  oak,  towers  high 
towards  the  dusky  ceiling,  and  extends  its  mighty  breadth 
to  take  in  a  vast  area  of  hearth,  the  arch  of  the  fireplace 
being  positively  so  immense  that  I  could  compare  it  to 
nothing  but  the  city  gateway.  Above  its  cavernous  open 
ing  were  crossed  two  ancient  halberds,  the  weapons,  pos 
sibly,  of  soldiers  who  had  fought  under  Leicester  in  the 
Low  Countries ;  and  elsewhere  on  the  walls  were  dis 
played  several  muskets,  which  some  of  the  present  in 
mates  of  the  hospital  may  have  levelled  against  the 
French.  Another  ornament  of  the  mantel-piece  was  a 
7 


98  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

square  of  silken  needlework  or  embroidery,  faded  nearly 
white,  but  dimly  representing  that  wearisome  Bear  and 
Ragged  Staff,  which  we  should  hardly  look  twice  at,  only 
that  it  was  wrought  by  the  fair  fingers  of  poor  Amy 
Robsart,  and  beautifully  framed  in  oak  from  Kenil worth 
Castle,  at  the  expense  of  a  Mr.  Conner,  a  countryman 
of  our  own.  Certainly,  no  Englishman  would  be  capable 
of  this  little  bit  of  enthusiasm.  Finally,  the  kitchen-fire 
light  glistens  on  a  splendid  display  of  copper  flagons,  all 
of  generous  capacity,  and  one  of  them  about  as  big  as  a 
half-barrel;  the  smaller  vessels  contain  the  customary 
allowance  of  ale,  and  the  larger  one  is  filled  with  that 
foaming  liquor  on  four  festive  occasions  of  the  year,  and 
emptied  amain  by  the  jolly  brotherhood.  I  should  be 
glad  to  see  them  do  it ;  but  it  would  be  an  exploit  fitter 
for  Queen  Elizabeth's  age  than  these  degenerate  times. 
The  kitchen  is  the  social  hall  of  the  twelve  brethren. 
In  the  daytime,  they  bring  their  little  messes  to  be 
cooked  here,  and  eat  them  in  their  own  parlors ;  but  after 
a  certain  hour,  the  great  hearth  is  cleared  and  swept,  and 
the  old  men  assemble  round  its  blaze,  each  with  his  tank 
ard  and  his  pipe,  and  hold  high,  converse  through  the 
evening.  If  the  Master  be  a  fit  man  for  his  office,  me- 
thinks  he  will  sometimes  sit  down  sociably  among  them ; 
for  there  is  an  elbow-chair  by  the  fireside  which  it  would 
not  demean  his  dignity  to  fill,  since  it  was  occupied  by 
King  James  at  the  great  festival  of  nearly  three  centuries 
ago.  A  sip  of  the  ale  and  a  whiff  of  the  tobacco-pipe 
would  put  him  in  friendly  relations  with  his  venerable 
household ;  and  then  we  can  fancy  him  instructing  them 
by  pithy  apothegms  and  religious  texts  which  were  first 
uttered  here  by  some  Catholic  p/iest  and  have  impreg- 


ABOUT   WARWICK.  99 

nated  the  atmosphere  ever  since.  If  a  joke  goes  round, 
it  shall  be  of  an  elder  coinage  than  Joe  Miller's,  as  old  as 
Lord  Bacon's  collection,  or  as  the  jest-book  that  Master 
Slender  asked  for  when  he  lacked  small-talk  for  sweet 
Anne  Page.  No  news  shall  be  spoken  of,  later  than  the 
drifting  ashore,  on  the  northern  coast,  of  some  stern-post 
or  figure-head,  a  barnacled  fragment  of  one  of  the  great 
galleons  of  the  Spanish  Armada.  What  a  tremor  would 
pass  through  the  antique  group,  if  a  damp  newspaper 
should  suddenly  be  spread  to  dry  before  the  fire  !  They 
would  feel  as  if  either  that  printed  sheet  or  they  them 
selves  must  be  an  unreality.  What  a  mysterious  awe,  if 
the  shriek  of  the  railway-train,  as  it  reaches  the  Warwick 
station,  should  ever  so  faintly  invade  their  ears !  Move 
ment  of  any  kind  seems  inconsistent  with  the  stability 
of  such  an  institution.  Nevertheless,  I  trust  that  the 
ages  will  carry  it  along  with  them ;  because  it  is  such  a 
pleasant  kind  of  dream  for  an  American  to  find  his  way 
thither,  and  behold  a  piece  of  the  sixteenth  century  set 
into  our  prosaic  times,  and  then  to  depart,  and  think  of 
its  arched  door-way  as  a  spell-guarded  entrance  which 
will  never  be  accessible  or  visible  to  him  any  more. 

Not  far  from  the  market-place  of  Warwick  stands  the 
great  church  of  St.  Mary's :  a  vast  edifice,  indeed,  and 
almost  worthy  to  be  a  cathedral.  People  who  pretend 
to  skill  in  such  matters  say  that  it  is  in  a  poor  style  of 
architecture,  though  designed  (or,  at  least,  extensively 
restored)  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren ;  but  I  thought  it  very 
striking,  with  its  wide,  high,  and  elaborate  windows,  its 
tall  towers,  its  immense  length,  and  (for  it  was  long 
before  I  outgrew  thif»  Americanism,  the  love  of  an  old 
thing  merely  for  the  sake  of  its  age)  the  tinge  of  gray 


100  ABOUT   WARWICK. 

antiquity  over  the  whole.  Once,  while  I  stood  gazing 
up  at  the  tower,  the  clock  struck  twelve  with  a  very 
deep  intonation,  and  immediately  some  chimes  began  to 
play,  and  kept  up  their  resounding  music  for  five  minutes, 
as  measured  by  the  hand  upon  the  dial.  It  was  a  very 
delightful  harmony,  as  airy  as  the  notes  of  birds,  and 
seemed  a  not  unbecoming  freak  of  half-sportive  fancy  in 
Ihe  huge,  ancient,  and  solemn  church ;  although  I  have 
seen  an  old-fashioned  parlor-clock  that  did  precisely  the 
same  thing,  in  its  small  way. 

The  great  attraction  of  this  edifice  is  the  Beauchamp 
(or,  as  the  English,  who  delight  in  vulgarizing  their  fine 
old  Norman  names,  call  it,  the  Beechum)  Chapel,  where 
the  Earls  of  Warwick  and  their  kindred  have  been 
buried,  from  four  hundred  years  back  till  within  a  recent 
period.  It  is  a  stately  and  very  elaborate  chapel,  with  a 
large  window  of  ancient  painted  glass,  as  perfectly  pre 
served  as  any  that  I  remember  seeing  in  England,  and 
remarkably  vivid  in  its  colors.  Here  are  several  monu 
ments  with  marble  figures  recumbent  upon  them,  repre 
senting  the  Earls  in  their  knightly  armor,  and  their 
dames  in  the  ruffs  and  court-finery  of  their  day,  looking 
hardly  stiffer  in  stone  than  they  must  needs  have  been  in 
their  starched  linen  and  embroidery.  The  renowned 
Earl  of  Leicester  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  the  bene 
factor  of  the  hospita!,  reclines  at  full  length  on  the  tablet 
of  one  of  these  tombs,  side  by  side  with  his  Countess,  — 
not  Amy  Robsait,  but  a  lady  who  (unless  I  have  confused 
the  story  with  some  other  mouldy  scandal)  is  said  to  have 
avenged  poor  Amy's  murder  by  poisoning  the  Earl  him 
self.  Be  that  as  it  may,  both  figures,  and  especially  the 
Earl,  look  like  the  very  types  of  ancient  Honor  and  Con- 


ABOUT  WARWICK.  10} 

jugal  Faith.  In  consideration  of  his  long-enduring  kinct 
ness  to  the  twelve  brethren,  I  cannot  consent  to  believe 
him  as  wicked  as  he  is  usually  depicted  ;  and  it  seems  a 
marvel,  now  that  so  many  well-established  historical  ver- 
diote  have  been  reversed,  why  some  enterprising  writer 
does  not  make  out  Leicester  to  have  been  the  pattern 
lObleman  of  his  age. 

In  the  centre  of  the  chapel  is  the  magnificent  memo 
rial  of  its  founder,  Richard  Beauchamp,  Earl  of  War 
wick  in  the  time  of  Henry  VI.  On  a  richly  ornamented 
altar-tomb  of  gray  marble  lies  the  bronze  figure  of  a 
knight  in  gilded  armor,  most  admirably  executed :  for 
the  sculptors  of  those  days  had  wonderful  skill  in  *heir 
own  style,  and  could  make  so  life-like  an  image  of  a 
warrior,  in  brass  or  marble,  that,  if  a  trumpet  were 
sounded  over  his  tomb,  you  would  expect  him  to  start 
up  and  handle  his  sword.  The  Earl  whom  we  now 
speak  of,  however,  has  slept  soundly  in  spite  of  a  more 
serious  disturbance  than  any  blast  of  a  trumpet,  unless  it 
were  the  final  one.  Some  centuries  after  his  death,  th« 
floor  of  the  chapel  fell  down  and  broke  open  the  Ftone 
coffin  in  which  he  was  buried ;  and  among  the  fragment* 
appeared  the  anciently  entombed  Earl  of  Warwick,  with 
the  color  scarcely  faded  out  of  his  cheeks,  his  eyes  a  little 
sunken,  but  in  other  respects  looking  as  natural  as  if  he 
had  died  yesterday.  But  exposure  to  the  atmosphere 
appeared  to  begin  and  finish  the  long-delayed  process  of 
decay  in  a  moment,  causing  him  to  vanish  like  a  bubble ; 
so  that,  almost  before  there  had  been  time  to  wonder  ot 
him,  there  was  nothing  left  of  the  stalwart  Earl  save  hia 
hair.  This  sole  relic  the  ladies  of  Warwick  made  prize 
of,  and  braided  it  into  rings  and  brooches  for  their  own 


102  ABOUT  WARWICK. 

adornment;  and  thus,  with,  a  chapel  and  a  ponderous 
tomb  built  on  purpose  to  protect  his  remains,  this  great 
nobleman  could  not  help  being  brought  untimely  to  the 
light  of  day,  nor  even  keep  his  lovelocks  on  his  skull 
after  he  had  so  long  done  with  love.  There  seems  to  be 
a  fatality  that  disturbs  people  in  their  sepulchres,  when 
they  have  been  over-careful  to  render  them  magnificent 
and  impregnable,  —  as  witness  the  builders  of  the  Pyra 
mids,  and  Hadrian,  Augustus,  and  the  Scipios,  and  most 
other  personages  whose  mausoleums  have  been  conspicu 
ous  enough  to  attract  the  violator ;  and  as  for  dead  men's 
hair,  I  have  seen  a  lock  of  King  Edward  the  Fourth's, 
of  a  reddish-brown  color,  which  perhaps  was  once  twisted 
round  the  delicate  forefinger  of  Mistress  Shore. 

The  direct  lineage  of  the  renowned  characters  that  lie 
buried  in  this  splendid  chapel  has  long  been  extinct. 
The  earldom  is  now  held  by  the  Grevilles,  descendants  of 
the  Lord  Brooke  who  was  slain  in  the  Parliamentary  War ; 
and  they  have  recently  (that  is  to  say,  within  a  century) 
built  a  burial-vault  on  the  other  side  of  the  church,  cal 
culated  (as  the  sexton  assured  me,  with  a  nod  as  if  he 
were  pleased)  to  afford  suitable  and  respectful  ac 
commodation  to  as  many  as  fourscore  coffins.  Thank 
Heaven,  the  old  man  did  not  call  them  "  CASKETS  " !  — 
a  vile  modern  phrase,  which  compels  a  person  of  sense 
and  good  taste  to  shrink  more  disgustfully  than  ever 
before  from  the  idea  of  being  buried  at  all.  But  a? 
regards  those  eighty  coffins,  only  sixteen  have  as  yet 
been  contributed ;  and  it  may  be  a  question  with  some 
minds,  not  merely  whether  the  Grevilles  will  hold  the 
earldom  of  Warwick  until  the  full  number  shall  be  made 
up,  but  whether  earldoms  and  all  manner  of  lordships 


ABOI'T  WARWICK.  103 

mil  not  have  faded  out  of  England  long  before  those 
many  generations  shall  have  passed  from  the  castle  to 
ihe  vault.  I  hope  not.  A  titled  and  landed  aristocracy, 
if  anywise  an  evil  and  an  incumbrance,  is  so  only  to  the 
nation  which  is  doomed  to  bear  it  on  its  shoulders  ;  and 
an  American,  whose  sole  relation  to  it  is  to  admire  its 
picturesque  effect  upon  society,  ought  to  be  the  last  mar 
to  quarrel  with  what  affords  him  so  much  gratuitous  en 
joyment.  Nevertheless,  conservative  as  England  is,  and 
though  I  scarce  ever  found  an  Englishman  who  seemed 
really  to  desire  change,  there  was  continually  a  dull 
sound  in  my  ears  as  if  the  old  foundations  of  things  were 
crumbling  away.  Some  time  or  other,  —  by  no  irrever 
ent  effort  of  violence,  but,  rather,  in  spite  of  all  pious 
efforts  to  uphold  a  heterogeneous  pile  of  institutions  that 
will  have  outlasted  their  vitality,  —  at  some  unexpected 
moment,  there  must  come  a  terrible  crash.  The  sole 
reason  why  I  should  desire  it  to  happen  in  my  day  is, 
that  I  might  be  there  to  see  !  But  the  ruin  of  my  own 
country  is,  perhaps,  all  that  I  am  destined  to  witness  ; 
and  that  immense  catastrophe  (though  I  am  strong  in  the 
faith  that  there  is  a  national  lifetime  of  a  thousand  years 
in  us  yet)  would  serve  any  man  well  enough  as  his  final 
spectacle  on  earth. 

If  the  visitor  is  inclined  to  carry  away  any  little  me 
morial  of  Warwick  he  had  better  go  to  an  Old  Curi 
osity  Shop  in  the  High  Street,  where  there  is  a  vast 
quantity  of  obsolete  gewgaws,  great  and  small,  and  many 
of  them  so  pretty  and  ingenious  that  you  wonder  how 
they  came  to  be  thrown  aside  and  forgotten.  As  regards 
its  minor  tastes,  the  world  changes,  but  does  not  improve 
it  appears  to  me,  indeed,  that  there  have  been  epochs  of 


101  ABOUT   WARWICK. 

far  more  exquisite  fancy  than  the  present  one,  in  matters 
of  personal  ornament,  and  such  delicate  trifles  as  we  put 
upon  a  drawing-room  table,  a  mantel-piece,  or  a  what 
not.  The  shop  in  question  is  near  the  East  Gate,  but  ig 
hardly  to  be  found  without  careful  search,  being  denoted 
only  by  the  name  of  "  REDFERN,"  painted  not  very  con 
spicuously  in  the  top-light  of  the  door.  Immediately  on 
entering,  we  find  ourselves  among  a  confusion  of  old  rub 
bish  and  valuables,  ancient  armor,  historic  portraits,  ebony 
cabinets  inlaid  with  pearl,  tall,  ghostly  clocks,  hideous  old 
china,  dim  looking-glasses  in  frames  of  tarnished  magnifi 
cence,  —  a  thousand  objects  of  strange  aspect,  and  others 
that  almost  frighten  you  by  their  likeness  in  unlikeness 
to  things  now  in  use.  It  is  impossible  to  give  an  idea  of 
the  variety  of  articles,  so  thickly  strewn  about  that  we 
can  scarcely  move  without  overthrowing  some  great  curi 
osity  with  a  crash,  or  sweeping  away  some  small  one 
hitched  to  our  sleeves.  Three  stories  of  the  entire  house 
are  crowded  in  like  manner.  The  collection,  even  as  we 
see  it  exposed  to  view,  must  have  been  got  together  at 
great  cost ;  but  the  real  treasures  of  the  establishment 
lie  in  secret  repositories,  whence  they  are  not  likely  to 
be  drawn  forth  at  an  ordinary  summons ;  though,  if  a 
gentleman  with  a  competently  long  purse  should  call  for 
them,  I  doubt  not  that  the  signet-ring  of  Joseph's  friend 
Pharaoh,  or  the  Duke  of  Alva's  leading-staff,  or  the  dag 
ger  that  killed  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  (all  of  which 
I  have  seen,)  or  any  other  almost  incredible  thing,  might 
make  its  appearance.  Gold  snuff-boxes,  antique  gems, 
jewelled  goblets,  Venetian  wine-gla,sses,  (which  burst 
when  poison  is  poured  into  them,  and  therefore  must  not 
be  used  for  modern  wine-drinking.)  jasper-handled  knives, 


ABOUT  WARWICK.  103 

painted  Sevres  tea-cups,  —  in  short,  there  are  all  sorts 
of  things  that  a  virtuoso  ransacks  the  world  to  discover. 

It  would  be  easier  to  spend  a  hundred  pounds  in  Mr. 
Redfern's  shop  than  to  keep  the  money  in  one's  pocket ; 
but,  for  my  part,  I  contented  myself  with  buying  a  little 
old  spoon  of  silver-gilt,  and  fantastically  shaped,  and  got 
it  at  all  the  more  reasonable  rate  because  there  hap 
pened  to  be  no  legend  attached  to  it.  I  could  supply 
any  deficiency  of  that  kind  at  much  less  expense  than 
regilding  the  spoon! 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

FROM  Leamington  to  Stratford-on-Avon  the  distance 
is  eight  or  nine  miles,  over  a  road  that  seemed  to  me 
most  beautiful.  Not  that  I  can  recall  any  memorable 
peculiarities ;  for  the  country,  most  of  the  way,  is  a  suc 
cession  of  the  gentlest  swells  and  subsidences,  affording 
wide  and  far  glimpses  of  champaign  scenery  here  and 
there,  and  sinking  almost  to  a  dead  level  as  we  draw 
near  Stratford.  Any  landscape  in  New  England,  even 
the  tamest,  has  a  more  striking  outline,  and  besides  would 
have  its  blue  eyes  open  in  those  lakelets  that  we  encoun 
ter  almost  from  mile  to  mile  at  home,  but  of  which  the 
Old  Country  is  utterly  destitute ;  or  it  would  smile  in  our 
faces  through  the  medium  of  the  wayside  brooks  that 
vanish  under  a  low  stone  arch  on  one  side  of  the  road, 
and  sparkle  out  again  on  the  other.  Neither  of  these 
pretty  features  is  often  to  be  found  in  an  English  scene. 
The  charm  of  the  latter  consists  in  the  rich  verdure  of 
the  fields,  in  the  stately  wayside  trees  and  carefully  kept 
plantations  of  wood,  and  in  the  old  and  high  cultivation 
that  has  humanized  the  very  sods  by  mingling  so  much 
of  man's  toil  and  care  among  them.  To  an  American 
there  is  a  kind  of  sanctity  even  in  an  English  turnip- 
lield,  when  he  thinks  how  long  that  small  square  of 
ground  has  been  known  and  recognized  as  a  possession. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN.         107 

transmitted  from  father  to  son,  trodden  often  by  memora 
ble  feet,  and  utterly  redeemed  from  savagery  by  old  ac 
quaintanceship  with  civilized  eyes.  The  wildest  things 
in  England  are  more  than  half  tame.  The  trees,  for 
instance,  whether  in  hedge-row,  park,  or  what  they  call 
forest,  have  nothing  wild  about  them.  They  are  never 
ragged ;  there  is  a  certain  decorous  restraint  in  the  freest 
outspread  of  their  branches,  though  they  spread  wider 
than  any  self-nurturing  tree ;  they  are  tall,  vigorous, 
bulky,  with  a  look  of  age-long  life,  and  a  promise  of  more 
years  to  come,  all  of  which  will  bring  them  into  closer 
kindred  with  the  race  of  man.  Somebody  or  other  has 
known  them  from  the  sapling  upward ;  and  if  they  en 
dure  long  enough,  they  grow  to  be  traditionally  observed 
and  honored,  and  connected  with  the  fortunes  of  old  fami 
lies,  till,  like  Tennyson's  Talking  Oak,  they  babble  with 
a  thousand  leafy  tongues  to  ears  that  can  understand 
them. 

An  American  tree,  however,  if  it  could  grow  in  fair 
competition  with  an  English  one  of  similar  species,  would 
probably  be  the  more  picturesque  object  of  the  two.  The 
Warwickshire  elm  has  not  so  beautiful  a  shape  as  those 
that  overhang  our  village  street ;  and  as  for  the  redoubta 
ble  English  oak,  there  is  a  certain  John  Bullism  in  its 
figure,  a  compact  rotundity  of  foliage,  a  lack  of  irregular 
and  various  outline,  that  make  it  look  wonderfully  like  a 
gigantic  cauliflower.  Its  leaf,  too,  is  much  smaller  than 
that  of  most  varieties  of  American  oak ;  nor  do  I  mean 
to  doubt  that  the  latter,  with  free  leave  to  grow,  reverent 
care  and  cultivation,  and  immunity  from  the  axe,  would 
live  out  its  centuries  as  sturdily  as  its  English  brother, 
and  prove  far  the  nobler  and  more  majestic  specimen  of 


103         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

a  tree  at  the  end  of  them.  Still,  however  one's  Yankee 
patriotism  may  struggle  against  the  admission,  it  must  be 
owned  that  the  trees  and  other  objects  of  an  English 
landscape  take  hold  of  the  observer  by  numberless  minute 
tendrils,  as  it  were,  which,  look  as  closely  as  we  choose, 
we  never  find  in  an  American  scene.  The  parasitic 
growth  is  so  luxuriant,  that  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  so  gray 
and  dry  in  our  climate,  is  better  worth  observing  than 
the  boughs  and  foliage  ;  a  verdant  mossiness  coats  it  all 
over  ;  so  that  it  looks  almost  as  green  as  the  leaves  ;  and 
often,  moreover,  the  stately  stem  is  clustered  about,  high 
upward,  with  creeping  and  twining  shrubs,  the  ivy,  and 
sometimes  the  mistletoe,  close-clinging  friends,  nurtured 
by  the  moisture  and  never  too  fervid  sunshine,  and  sup 
porting  themselves  by  the  old  tree's  abundant  strength. 
We  call  it  a  parasitical  vegetation  ;  but,  if  the  phrase 
imply  any  reproach,  it  is  unkind  to  bestow  it  on  this 
beautiful  affection  and  relationship  which  exist  in  Eng 
land  between  one  order  of  plants  and  another :  the  strong 
tree  being  always  ready  to  give  support  to  the  trailing 
shrub,  lift  it  to  the  sun,  and  feed  it  out  of  its  own  heart, 
if  it  crave  such  food ;  and  the  shrub,  on  its  part,  repaying 
its  foster-father  with  an  ample  luxuriance  of  beauty,  and 
adding  Corinthian  grace  to  the  tree's  lofty  strength.  No 
bitter  winter  nips  these  tender  little  sympathies,  no  hot 
sun  burns  the  life  out  of  them  ;  and  therefore  they  out 
last  the  longevity  of  the  oak,  and,  if  the  woodman  per 
mitted,  would  bury  it  in  a  green  grave,  when  all  is  over. 
Should  there  be  nothing  else  along  the  road  to  look  at, 
an  English  hedge  might  well  suffice  to  occupy  the  eyes, 
and,  to  a  depth  beyond  what  he  would  suppose,  the  heart 
of  an  American.  We  often  set  out  hed«»v}s  in  our  own 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED   WOMAN.         109 

soil,  but  might  as  well  set  out  figs  or  pine -apples  and  ex 
pect  to  gather  fruit  of  them.  Something  grows,  to  be 
sure,  which  we  choose  to  call  a  hedge ;  but  it  lacks  the 
dense,  luxuriant  variety  of  vegetation  that  is  accumulated 
into  the  English  original,  in  which  a  botanist  would  find 
u  thousand  shrubs  and  gracious  herbs  that  the  hedge- 
maker  never  thought  of  planting  there.  Among  them, 
growing  wild,  are  many  of  the  kindred  blossoms  of  the 
very  flowers  which  our  pilgrim  fathers  brought  from  Eng 
land,  for  the  sake  of  their  simple  beauty  and  home-like 
associations,  and  which  we  have  ever  since  been  cultivat 
ing  in  gardens.  There  is  not  a  softer  trait  to  be  found 
in  the  character  of  those  stern  men  than  that  they  should 
have  been  sensible  of  these  flower-roots  clinging  among 
the  fibres  of  their  rugged  hearts,  and  have  felt  the  neces 
sity  of  bringing  them  over  sea  and  making  them  heredi 
tary  in  the  new  land,  instead  of  trusting  to  what  rarer 
beauty  the  wilderness  might  have  in  store  for  them. 

Or,  if  the  roadside  has  no  hedge,  the  ugliest  stone 
fence  (such  as,  in  America,  would  keep  itself  bare  and 
unsympathizing  till  the  end  of  time)  is  sure  to  be  covered 
with  the  small  handiwork  of  Nature  ;  that  careful  mother 
lets  nothing  go  naked  there,  and,  if  she  cannot  provide 
clothing,  gives  at  least  embroidery.  No  sooner  is  the 
fence  built  than  she  adopts  and  adorns  it  as  a  part  of  her 
original  plan,  treating  the  hard,  uncomely  construction 
as  if  it  had  all  along  been  a  favorite  idea  >f  her  own.  A 
little  sprig  of  ivy  may  be  seen  creeping  up  the  side  of 
the  low  wall  and  clinging  fast  with  its  many  feet  to  the 
rough  surface ;  a  tuft  of  grass  roots  itself  between  two  of 
the  stones,  where  a  pinch  or  two  of  wayside  dust  has 
been  moistened  into  nutritious  soil  for  it :  a  small  bunch 


110         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

of  fern  grows  in  another  crevice ;  a  deep,  soft,  verdant 
moss  spreads  itself  along  the  top  and  over  all  the  availa 
ble  inequalities  of  the  fence ;  and  where  nothing  else  will 
grow,  lichens  stick  tenaciously  to  the  bare  stones  and  va 
riegate  the  monotonous  gray  with  hues  of  yellow  and  red. 
Finally,  a  great  deal  of  shrubbery  clusters  along  the  base 
of  the  stone  wall,  and  takes  away  the  hardness  of  its  out 
line  ;  and  in  due  time,  as  the  upshot  of  these  apparently 
aimless  or  sportive  touches,  we  recognize  that  the  benefi 
cent  Creator  of  all  things,  working  through  His  hand 
maiden  whom  we  call  Nature,  has  deigned  to  mingle  a 
charm  of  divine  gracefulness  even  with  so  earthly  an  in 
stitution  as  a  boundary  fence.  The  clown  who  wrought 
at  it  little  dreamed  what  fellow-laborer  he  had. 

The  English  should  send  us  photographs  of  portions 
of  the  trunks  of  trees,  the  tangled  and  various  products 
of  a  hedge,  and  a  square  foot  of  an  old  wall.  They  can 
hardly  send  anything  else  so  characteristic.  Their  artists, 
especially  of  the  later  school,  sometimes  toil  to  depict 
such  subjects,  but  are  apt  to  stiffen  the  lithe  tendrils  in 
the  process.  The  poets  succeed  better,  with  Tennyson 
at  their  head,  and  often  produce  ravishing  effects  by  dint 
of  a  tender  minuteness  of  touch,  to  which  the  genius  of 
the  soil  and  climate  artfully  impels  them :  for,  as  regards 
grandeur,  there  are  loftier  scenes  in  many  countries  than 
the  best  that  England  can  show ;  but,  for  the  picturesque- 
ness  of  the  smallest  object  that  lies  under  its  gentle 
gloom  and  sunshine,  there  is  no  scenery  like  it  anywhere. 

In  the  foregoing  paragraphs  I  have  strayed  away  to  a 
long  distance  from  the  road  to  Stratford-on-Avon  ;  for  I 
remember  no  such  stone  fences  as  I  have  been  speaking 
t>f  in  Warwickshire,  nor  elsewhere  in  England,  except 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN.         Ill 

among  the  Lakes,  or  in  Yorkshire,  and  the  rough  and 
hilly  countries  to  the  north  of  it.  Hedges  there  were 
along  my  road,  however,  and  broad,  level  fields,  rustic 
hamlets,  and  cottages  of  ancient  date,  —  from  the  roof  of 
one  of  which  the  occupant  was  tearing  away  the  thatch, 
and  showing  what  an  accumulation  of  dust,  dirt,  mouldi- 
ness,  roots  of  weeds,  families  of  mice,  swallows'  nests,  and 
hordes  of  insects,  had  been  deposited  there  since  that  old 
straw  was  new.  Estimating  its  antiquity  from  these 
tokens,  Shakspeare  himself,  in  one  of  his  morning  ram 
bles  out  of  his  native  town,  might  have  seen  the  thatch 
laid  on ;  at  all  events,  the  cottage-walls  were  old  enough 
to  have  known  him  as  a  guest.  A  few  modern  villas 
were  also  to  be  seen,  and  perhaps  there  were  mansions 
of  old  gentility  at  no  great  distance,  but  hidden  among 
trees ;  for  it  is  a  point  of  English  pride  that  such  houses 
seldom  allow  themselves  to  be  visible  from  the  high-road. 
In  short,  I  recollect  nothing  specially  remarkable  along 
the  way,  nor  in  the  immediate  approach  to  Stratford; 
and  yet  the  picture  of  that  June  morning  has  a  glory  in 
my  memory,  owing  chiefly,  I  believe,  to  the  charm  of  the 
English  summer-weather,  the  really  good  days  of  which 
are  the  most  delightful  that  mortal  man  can  ever  hope  to 
be  favored  with.  Such  a  genial  warmth !  A  little  too 
warm,  it  might  be,  yet  only  to  such  a  degree  as  to  assure 
an  American  (a  certainty  to  which  he  seldom  attains  till 
attempered  to  the  customary  austerity  of  an  English  sum 
mer-day)  that  he  was  quite  warm  enough.  And  after 
all,  there  was  an  unconquerable  freshness  in  the  atmos 
phere,  which  every  little  movement  of  a  breeze  shook 
over  me  like  a  dash  of  the  ocean-spray.  Such  days 
need  bring  us  no  other  happiness  than  their  own  light 


112         RECOLLECTIONS   OF  A  GIFTED   WOMAN. 

and  temperature.  No  doubt,  I  could  not  have  enjoyed  it 
so  exquisitely,  except  that  there  must  be  still  latent  in  us 
Western  wanderers  (even  after  an  absence  of  two  cen 
turies  and  more),  an  adaptation  to  the  English  climate 
which  makes  us  sensible  of  a  motherly  kindness  in  its 
scantiest  sunshine,  and  overflows  us  with  delight  at  its 
more  lavish  smiles. 

The  spire  of  Shakspeare's  church  —  the  Church  of 
(he  Holy  Trinity  —  begins  to  show  itself  among  the  trees 
at  a  little  distance  from  Stratford.  Next  we  see  the 
shabby  old  dwellings,  intermixed  with  mean-looking 
houses  of  modern  date ;  and  the  streets  being  quite 
level,  you  are  struck  and  surprised  by  nothing  so  much 
as  the  tameness  of  the  general  scene ;  as  if  Shakspeare's 
genius  were  vivid  enough  to  have  wrought  pictorial 
splendors  in  the  town  where  he  was  born.  Here  and 
there,  however,  a  queer  edifice  meets  your  eye,  endowed 
with  the  individuality  that  belongs  only  to  the  domestic 
architecture  of  times  gone  by ;  the  house  seems  to  have 
grown  out  of  some  odd  quality  in  its  inhabitant,  as  a  sea- 
shell  is  moulded  from  within  by  the  character  of  its 
inmate ;  and  having  been  built  in  a  strange  fashion, 
generations  ago,  it  has  ever  since  been  growing  stranger 
and  quainter,  as  old  humorists  are  apt  to  do.  Here,  too, 
(as  so  often  impressed  me  in  decayed  English  towns,) 
there  appeared  to  be  a  greater  abundance  of  aged  people 
wearing  small-clothes  and  leaning  on  sticks  than  you 
could  assemble  on  our  side  of  the  water  by  sounding  a 
trumpet  and  proclaiming  a  reward  for  the  most  vener 
able.  I  tried  to  account  for  this  phenomenon  by  several 
theories :  as,  for  example,  that  our  new  towns  are  uu 
wholesome  for  age  and  kill  it  off  unseasonably ;  or  that 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  A   GIFTED   WOMAN.          113 

our  old  men  have  a  subtile  sense  of  fitness,  and  die  of 
their  own  accord  rather  than  Jwe  in  an  unseemly  contrast 
with  youth  and  novelty :  but  the  secret  may  be,  after  all, 
that  hair-dyes,  false  teeth,  modern  arts  of  dress,  and  other 
contrivances  of  a  skin-deep  youthfulness,  have  not  crept 
into  these  antiquated  English  towns,  and  so  people  grow 
old  without  the  weary  necessity  of  seeming  younger  than 
they  are. 

After  wandering  through  two  or  three  streets,  I  found 
my  way  to  Shakspeare's  birthplace,  which  is  almost  a 
smaller  and  humbler  house  than  any  description  can  pre 
pare  the  visitor  to  expect ;  so  inevitably  does  an  august 
inhabitant  make  his  abode  palatial  to  our  imaginations, 
receiving  his  guests,  indeed,  in  a  castle  hi  the  air,  until 
we  unwisely  insist  on  meeting  him  among  the  sordid 
lanes  and  alleys  of  lower  earth.  The  portion  of  the  edi 
fice  with  which  Shakspeare  had  anything  to  do  is  hardly 
large  enough,  in  the  basement,  to  contain  the  butcher's 
stall  that  one  of  his  descendants  kept,  and  that  still  re 
mains  there,  windowless,  with  the  cleaver-cuts  in  its 
hacked  counter,  which  projects  into  the  street  under  a 
little  penthouse-roof,  as  if  waiting  for  a  new  occupant. 

The  upper  half  of  the  door  was  open,  and,  on  my  rap 
ping  at  it,  a  young  person  in  black  made  her  appearance 
and  admitted  me :  she  was  not  a  menial,  but  remarkably 
genteel  (an  American  characteristic)  for  an  English  girl, 
and  was  probably  the  daughter  of  the  old  gentlewoman 
who  takes  care  of  the  house.  This  lower  room  has  » 
pavement  of  gray  slabs  of  stone,  which  may  have  been 
rudely  squared  when  the  house  was  new,  but  are  now  aV 
cracked,  broken,  and  disarranged  in  a  most  unaccountable 
way.  One  does  not  see  how  any  ordinary  usage,  fo? 


J14         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

whatever  length  of  time,  should  have  so  smashed  these 
heavy  stones ;  it  is  as  if  an  earthquake  had  burst  up 
through  the  floor,  which  afterwards  had  been  imperfectly 
trodden  down  again.  The  room  is  whitewashed  and  very 
clean,  but  wofully  shabby  and  dingy,  coarsely  built,  and 
such  as  the  most  poetical  imagination  would  find  it  diffi 
cult  to  idealize.  In  the  rear  of  this  apartment  is  the 
kitchen,  a  still  smaller  room,  of  a  similar  rude  aspect ;  it 
has  a  great,  rough  fireplace,  with  space  for  a  large  family 
imder  the  blackened  opening  of  the  chimney,  and  an  im 
mense  passage-way  for  the  smoke,  through  which  Shak- 
speare  may  have  seen  the  blue  sky  by  day  and  the  stars 
glimmering  down  at  him  by  night.  It  is  now  a  dreary 
spot  where  the  long-extinguished  embers  used  to  be.  A 
glowing  fire,  even  if  it  covered  only  a  quarter  part  of 
the  hearth,  might  still  do  much  towards  making  the  old 
kitchen  cheerful.  But  we  get  a  depressing  idea  of  the 
stifled,  poor,  sombre  kind  of  life  that  could  have  been 
lived  in  such  a  dwelling,  where  this  room  seems  to  have 
been  the  gathering-place  of  the  family,  with  no  breadth 
or  scope,  no  good  retirement,  but  old  and  young,  huddling 
together  cheek  by  jowl.  What  a  hardy  piant  was  Shak- 
speare's  genius,  how  fatal  its  development,  since  it  could 
not  be  blighted  in  such  an  atmosphere  !  It  only  brought 
human  nature  the  closer  to  him,  and  put  more  unctuous 
earth  about  his  roots. 

Thence  I  was  ushered  up-stairs  to  the  room  in  which 
Shakspeare  is  supposed  to  have  been  born :  though,  if 
you  peep  too  curiously  into  the  matter,  you  may  find  the 
shadow  of  an  ugly  doubt  on  this,  as  well  as  most  other 
points  of  his  mysterious  life.  It  is  the  chamber  over  the 
butcher's  shop,  and  is  lighted  by  one  broad  window  con- 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   A   GIFTED   WOMAN.          115 

talning  a  great  many  small,  irregular  panes  of  glass. 
The  floor  is  made  of  planks,  very  rudely  hewn,  and  fit 
ting  together  with  little  neatness ;  the  naked  beams  and 
rafters,  at  the  sides  of  the  room  and  overhead,  bear  the 
original  marks  of  the  builder's  broad-axe,  with  no  evi 
dence  of  an  attempt  to  smooth  off  the  job.  Again  we 
have  to  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  smallness  of  the  spac< 
enclosed  by  these  illustrious  --  walls,  —  a  circumstance 
more  difficult  to  accept,  as  regards  places  that  we  have 
heard,  read,  thought,  and  dreamed  much  about,  than  any 
other  disenchanting  particular  of  a  mistaken  ideal.  A 
few  paces  —  perhaps  seven  or  eight  —  take  us  from  end 
to  end  of  it.  So  low  it  is,  that  I  could  easily  touch  tho 
ceiling,  and  might  have  done  so  without  a  tiptoe-stretch, 
had  it  been  a  good  deal  higher ;  and  this  humility  of  the 
chamber  has  tempted  a  vast  multitude  of  people  to  write 
their  names  overhead  in  pencil.  Every  inch  of  the  side- 
walls,  even  into  the  obscurest  nooks  and  corners,  is  covered 
with  a  similar  record ;  all  the  window-panes,  moreover, 
are  scrawled  with  diamond  signatures,  among  which  is 
said  to  be  that  of  Walter  Scott;  but  so  many  persons 
have  sought  to  immortalize  themselves  in  close  vicinity 
to  his  name  that  I  really  could  not  trace  him  out.  Me- 
thinks  it  is  strange  that  people  do  not  strive  to  forget 
their  forlorn  little  identities,  in  such  situations,  instead  of 
thrusting  them  forward  into  the  dazzle  of  a  great  renown, 
where,  if  noticed,  they  cannot  but  be  deemed  impertinent. 
This  room,  and  the  entire  house,  so  far  as  I  saw  it,  are 
whitewashed  and  exceedingly  clean;  nor  is  there  the 
aged,  musty  smell  with  which  old  Chester  first  made 
me  acquainted,  and  which  goes  far  to  cure  an  Ameri 
can  of  his  excessive  predilection  for  antique  residences. 


116         RECOI  LECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

An  old  lady,  who  took  charge  of  me  up-stairs,  had  the 
manners  and  aspect  of  a  gentlewoman,  and  talked  with 
somewhat  formidable  knowledge  and  appreciative  in 
telligence  about  Shakspeare.  Arranged  on  a  table  and 
in  chairs  were  various  prints,  views  of  houses  and  scenes 
connected  with  Shakspeare's  memory,  together  with  edi 
tions  of  his  works  and  local  publications  about  his  home 
and  haunts,  from  the  sale  of  which  this  respectable  lady 
perhaps  realizes  a  handsome  profit.  At  any  rate,  I 
bought  a  good  many  of  them,  conceiving  that  it  might 
be  the  civillest  way  of  requiting  her  for  her  instructive 
conversation  and  the  trouble  she  took  in  showing  me  the 
house.  It  cost  me  a  pang  (not  a  curmudgeonly,  but  a 
gentlemanly  one)  to  offer  a  downright  fee  to  the  lady 
like  girl  who  had  admitted  me  ;  but  I  swallowed  my 
delicate  scruples  with  some  little  difficulty,  and  she  di 
gested  hers,  so  far  as  I  could  observe,  with  no  difficulty 
at  all.  In  fact,  nobody  need  fear  to  hold  out  half  a 
crown  to  any  person  with  whom  he  has  occasion  to  speak 
a  word  in  England. 

I  should  consider  it  unfair  to  quit  Shakspeare's  house 
without  the  frank  acknowledgment  that  I  was  conscious 
of  not  the  slightest  emotion  while  viewing  it,  nor  any 
quickening  of  the  imagination.  This  has  often  happened 
to  me  in  my  visits  to  memorable  places.  Whatever 
pretty  and  apposite  reflections  I  may  have  made  upon 
the  subject  had  either  occurred  to  me  before  I  ever  saw 
Stratford,  or  have  been  elaborated  since.  It  is  pleasant, 
nevertheless,  to  think  that  I  have  seen  the  place  ;  and  I 
believe  that  I  can  form  a  more  sensible  and  vivid  idea 
of  Shakspeare  as  a  flesh-and-blood  individual  now  that 
I  have  stood  on  the  kitchen-hearth  arid  in  the  birth 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN.          117 

chamber ;  but  I  am  not  quite  certain  that  this  power  of 
realization  is  altogether  desirable  in  reference  to  a  great 
poet.  The  Shakspeare  whom  I  met  there  took  various 
guises,  but  had  not  his  laurel  on.  He  was  successively 
the  roguish  boy,  —  the  youthful  deer-stealer  —  the  com 
rade  of  players,  —  the  too  familiar  friend  of  Davenant' 
mother,  —  the  careful,  thrifty,  thriven  man  of  property 
who  came  back  from  London  to  lend  money  on  bond,  and 
occupy  the  best  house  in  Stratford,  —  the  mellow,  red 
nosed,  autumnal  boon-companion  of  John  a'  Combe  —  and 
finally,  (or  else  the  Stratford  gossips  belied  him,)  the 
victim  of  convivial  habits  who  met  his  death  by  tumbling 
into  a  ditch  on  his  way  home  from  a  drinking-bout,  and 
left  his  second-best  bed  to  his  poor  wife. 

I  feel,  as  sensibly  as  the  reader  can,  what  horrible  im 
piety  it  is  to  remember  these  things,  be  they  true  or  false. 
In  either  case,  they  ought  to  vanish  out  of  sight  on  the 
distant  ocean-line  of  the  past,  leaving  a  pure,  white  mem 
ory,  even  as  a  sail,  though  perhaps  darkened  with  many 
stains,  looks  snowy  white  on  the  far  horizon.  But  I 
draw  a  moral  from  these  unworthy  reminiscences  and 
this  embodiment  of  the  poet,  as  suggested  by  some  of 
the  grimy  actualities  of  his  life.  It  is  for  the  high  in 
terests  of  the  world  not  to  insist  upon  finding  out  that  its 
greatest  men  are,  in  a  certain  lower  sense,  very  much  the 
same  kind  of  men  as  the  rest  of  us,  and  often  a  little 
worse  ;  because  a  common  mind  cannot  properly  digest 
such  a  discovery,  nor  ever  know  the  true  proportion  of 
the  great  man's  good  and  evil,  nor  how  small  a  part 
of  him  it  was  that  touched  our  muddy  or  dusty  earth. 
Thence  comes  moral  bewilderment,  and  even  intellectual 
loss,  in  regard  to  what  is  best  of  |iim.  When  Shakspearo 


118         RECOLLECTIONS   OF  A  GIFTED   WOMAN. 

invoked  a  curse  on  the  man  who  should  stir  his  bones,  he 
perhaps  meant  the  larger  share  of  it  for  him  or  them  who 
should  pry  into  his  perishing  earthliness,  the  defects  or 
even  the  merits  of  the  character  that  he  wore  in  Strat 
ford,  when  he  had  left  mankind  so  much  to  muse  upon 
that  was  imperishable  and  divine.  Heaven  keep  me 
from  incurring  any  part  of  the  anathema  in  requital  for 
the  irreverent  sentences  above  written  ! 

From  Shakspeare's  house,  the  next  step,  of  course,  is 
to  visit  his  burial-place.  The  appearance  of  the  church 
is  most  venerable  and  beautiful,  standing  amid  a  great 
green  shadow  of  lime-trees,  above  which  rises  the  spire, 
while  the  Gothic  battlements  and  buttresses  and  vast 
arched  windows  are  obscurely  seen  through  the  boughs. 
The  Avon  loiters  past  the  churchyard,  an  exceedingly 
sluggish  river,  which  might  seem  to  have  been  consider 
ing  which  way  it  should  flow  ever  since  Shakspeare  left 
off  paddling  in  it  and  gathering  the  large  forget-me-nots 
that  grow  among  its  flags  and  water-weeds. 

An  old  man  in  small-clothes  was  waiting  at  the  gate ; 
and  inquiring  whether  I  wished  to  go  in,  he  preceded  me 
to  the  church-porch,  and  rapped.  I  could  have  done  it 
quite  as  effectually  for  myself;  but  it  seems,  the  old  peo 
ple  of  the  neighborhood  haunt  about  the  churchyard,  in 
spite  of  the  frowns  and  remonstrances  of  the  sexton,  who 
grudges  them  the  half-eleemosynary  sixpence  which  they 
sometimes  get  from  visitors.  I  was  admitted  into  the 
church  by  a  respectable-looking  and  intelligent  man  in 
black,  the  parish-clerk,  I  suppose,  and  probably  holding  a 
richer  incumbency  than  his  vicar,  if  all  the  fees  which 
he  handles  remain  in  his  own  pocket.  He  was  already 
exhibitii'g  the  Shakspeare  monuments  to  two  or  three 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED   WOMAN.          119 

visitors,  and  several  other  parties  came  in  while  I  was 
there. 

The  poet  and  his  family  are  in  possession  of  what  may  be 
considered  the  very  best  burial-places  that  the  church  af 
fords.  They  lie  in  a  row,  right  across  the  breadth  of  the 
chancel,  the  foot  of  each  gravestone  being  close  to  the  ele 
vated  floor  on  which  the  altar  stands.  Nearest  to  the  side- 
wall,  beneath  Shakspeare's  bust,  is  a  slab  bearing  a  Latin 
inscription  addressed  to  his  wife,  and  covering  her  re 
mains  ;  then  his  own  slab,  with  the  old  anathematizing 
stanza  upon  it ;  then  that  of  Thomas  Nash,  who  married 
his  grand-daughter ;  then  that  of  Dr.  Hall,  the  husband 
of  his  daughter  Susannah ;  and,  lastly,  Susannah's  own. 
Shakspeare's  is  the  commonest-looking  slab  of  all,  being 
just  such  a  flag-stone  as  Essex  Street  in  Salem  used  to 
be  paved  with,  when  I  was  a  boy.  Moreover,  unless  my 
eyes  or  recollection  deceive  me,  there  is  a  crack  across 
it,  as  if  it  had  already  undergone  some  such  violence  as 
the  inscription  deprecates.  Unlike  the  other  monuments 
of  the  family,  it  bears  no  name,  nor  am  I  acquainted 
with  the  grounds  or  authority  on  which  it  is  absolutely 
determined  to  he  Shakspeare's ;  although,  being  in  a 
range  with  those  of  his  wife  and  children,  it  might 
naturally  be  attributed  to  him.  But,  then,  why  does  his 
wife,  who  died  afterwards,  take  precedence  of  him  and 
occupy  the  place  next  his  bust?  And  where  are  the 
graves  of  another  daughter  and  a  son,  who  have  a  better 
right  in  the  family-row  than  Thomas  Nash,  his  grand- 
son-in-law  ?  Might  not  one  or  both  of  them  have  been 
laid  under  the  nameless  stone  ?  But  it  is  dangerous 
trifling  with  Shakspeare's  dust ;  so  I  forbear  to  meddle 
further  with  the  grave,  (though  the  prohibition  makes  it 


120         RECOIJ/F.CTIONS  OF  A  Gil  IED  WOMAN". 

tempting,)  and  shall  let  whatever  bones  be  in  it  rest  in 
peace.  Yet  I  must  needs  add  that  the  inscription  on  the 
bust  seems  to  imply  that  Shakspeare's  grava  was  directly 
underneath  it. 

The  poet's  bust  is  affixed  to  the  northern  jyall  of  the 
church,  the  base  of  it  being  about  a  man's  height,  or 
rather  more,  above  the  floor  of  the  chancel.  The  fea 
tures  of  this  piece  of  sculpture  are  entirely  uiJike  any 
portrait  of  Shakspeare  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  compel 
me  to  take  down  the  beautiful,  lofty-browed,  and  noble 
picture  of  him  which  has  hitherto  hung  in  my  mental 
portrait  gallery.  The  bust  cannot  be  said  to  represent  a 
beautiful  face  or  an  eminently  noble  head ;  but  it  clutches 
firmly  hold  of  one's  sense  of  reality  and  insists  upon  your 
accepting  it,  if  not  as  Shakspeare  the  poet,  yet  as  the 
wealthy  burgher  of  Stratford,  the  friend  of  John  a* 
Combe,  who  lies  yonder  in  the  corner.  I  know  not  what 
the  phrenologists  say  to  the  bust.  The  forehead  is  but 
moderately  developed,  and  retreats  somewhat,  the  upper 
part  of  the  skull  rising  pyramidally ;  the  eyes  are  prom 
inent  almost  beyond  the  penthouse  of  the  brow ;  the 
upper  lip  is  so  long  that  it  must  have  been  almost  a 
deformity,  unless  the  sculptor  artistically  exaggerated  its 
length,  in  consideration,  that,  on  the  pedestal,  it  must  be 
foreshortened  by  being  looked  at  from  below.  On  the 
whole,  Shakspeare  must  have  had  a  singular  rather  than 
a  prepossessing  face ;  and  it  is  wonderful  how,  with  this 
bust  before  its  eyes,  the  world  has  persisted  in  maintain 
ing  an  erroneous  notion  of  his  appearance,  allowing  paint 
ers  and  sculptors  to  foist  their  idealized  nonsense  on  ua 
all,  instead  of  the  genuine  man.  For  my  part,  the  Shak 
speare  of  my  mind's  eye  is  henceforth  to  be  a  personage 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN".         121 

of  a  ruddy  English  complexion,  with  a  reasonably  capa 
cious  brow,  intelligent  and  quickly  observant  eyes,  a  nose 
curved  slightly  outward,  a  long,  queer  upper-lip,  with 
the  mouth  a  little  unclosed  beneath  it,  and  cheeks  con 
siderably  developed  in  the  lower  part  and  beneath  the 
chin.  But  when  Shakspeare  was  himself,  (for  nine-tentha 
of  the  time,  according  to  all  appearances,  he  was  but  the 
burgher  of  Stratford,)  he  doubtless  shone  through  this 
dull  mask  and  transfigured  it  into  the  face  of  an  angel. 
Fifteen  or  twenty  feet  behind  the  row  of  Shakspeare 
gravestones  is  the  great  east-window  of  the  church,  now 
brilliant  with  stained  glass  of  recent  manufacture.  On 
one  side  of  this  window,  under  a  sculptured  arch  of 
marble,  lies  a  full-length  marble  figure  of  John  a'  Combe, 
clad  in  what  I  take  to  be  a  robe  of  municipal  dignity,  and 
holding  its  hands  devoutly  clasped.  It  is  a  sturdy  Eng 
lish  figure,  with  coarse  features,  a  type  of  ordinary  man 
whom  we  smile  to  see  immortalized  in  the  sculpturesque 
material  of  poets  and  heroes  ;  but  the  prayerful  attitude 
encourages  us  to  believe  that  the  old  usurer  may  not, 
after  all,  have  had  that  grim  reception  in  the  other  world 
which  Shakspeare's  squib  foreboded  for  him.  By-the-by, 
till  I  grew  somewhat  familiar  with  Warwickshire  pro 
nunciation,  I  never  understood  that  the  point  of  those 
ill-natured  lines  was  a  pun.  "  l  Oho  !  '  quoth  the  Devil, 
«  't  is  my  John  a'  Combe  I'"  —  that  is,  "  My  John  has 


Close  to  the  poet's  bust  is  a  nameless,  oblong,  cubic 
tomb,  supposed  to  be  that  of  a  clerical  dignitary  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  The  church  has  other  mural  monu 
ments  and  altar  tombs,  one  or  two  of  the  latter  uphold 
ing  the  recumbent  figures  of  knights  in  armor  and  their 


122        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

dames,  very  eminent  and  worshipful  personages  in  their 
day,  no  doubt,  but  doomed  to  appear  forever  intrusive 
and  impertinent  within  the  precincts  which  Shakspeare 
has  made  his  own.  His  renown  is  tyrannous,  and  suffers 
nothing  else  to  be  recognized  within  the  scope  of  its 
material  presence,  unless  illuminated  by  some  side-ray 
from  himself.  The  clerk  informed  me  that  interments 
lao  longer  take  place  in  any  part  of  the  church.  And  it  ;. 
is  better  so ;  for  methinks  a  person  of  delicate  individu 
ality,  curious  about  his  burial-place,  and  desirous  of  six 
feet  of  earth  for  himself  alone,  could  never  endure  to  lie 
buried  near  Shakspeare,  but  would  rise  up  at  midnight 
and  grope  his  way  out  of  the  church-door,  rather  than 
sleep  in  the  shadow  of  so  stupendous  a  memory. 

I  should  hardly  have  dared  to  add  another  to  the  innu 
merable  descriptions  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  if  it  had  not 
seemed  to  me  that  this  would  form  a  fitting  framework 
to  some  reminiscences  of  a  very  remarkable  womaii. 
Her  labor,  while  she  lived,  was  of  a  nature  and  purpose 
outwardly  irreverent  to  the  name  of  Shakspeare,  yet,  by 
its  actual  tendency,  entitling  her  to  the  distinction  of  being 
that  one  of  all  his  worshippers  who  sought,  though  she 
knew  it  not,  to  place  the  richest  and  stateliest  diadem 
upon  his  brow.  We  Americans,  at  least,  in  the  scanty 
annals  of  our  literature,  cannot  afford  to  forget  her  high 
and  conscientious  exercise  of  noble  faculties,  which,  in 
deed,  if  you  look  at  the  matter  in  one  way,  evolved  only 
a  miserable  error,  but,  more  fairly  considered,  produced  a 
result  worth  almost  what  it  cost  her.  Her  faith  in  her 
own  ideas  was  so  genuine,  that,  erroneous  as  they  were, 
it  transmuted  them  to  gold,  or,  at  all  events,  interfused  a 
large  proportion  of  that  precious  and  indestructible  sub- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN.         123 

stance  among  the  waste  material  from  whicn  it  can  read 
ily  be  sifted. 

The  only  time  I  ever  saw  Miss  Bacon  was  in  London, 
where  she  had  lodgings  in  Spring  Street,  Sussex  Gar 
dens,  at  the  house  of  a  grocer,  a  portly,  middle-aged, 
civil,  and  friendly  man,  who,  as  well  as  his  wife,  appeared 
10  feel  a  personal  kindness  towards  their  lodger.  I  was 
ushered  up  two  (and  I  rather  believe  three)  pair  of  stairs 
into  a  parlor  somewhat  humbly  furnished,  and  told  that 
Miss  Bacon  would  come  soon.  There  were  a  number  of 
books  on  the  table,  and,  looking  into  them,  I  found  that 
every  one  had  some  reference,  more  or  less  immediate, 
to  her  Shakspearian  theory,  —  a  volume  of  Raleigh's 
"  History  of  the  World,"  a  volume  of  Montaigne,  a 
volume  of  Lord  Bacon's  letters,  a  volume  of  Shak- 
speare's  plays ;  and  on  another  table  lay  a  large  roll  of 
manuscript,  which  I  presume  to  have  been  a  portion  of 
her  work.  To  be  sure,  there  was  a  pocket-Bible  among 
the  books,  but  everything  else  referred  to  the  one  des 
potic  idea  that  had  got  possession  of  her  mind  ;  and  as  it 
had  engrossed  her  whole  soul  as  well  as  her  intellect,  I 
have  no  doubt  that  she  had  established  subtile  connec 
tions  between  it  and  the  Bible  likewise.  As  is  apt  to  be 
the  case  with  solitary  students,  Miss  Bacon  probably  read 
late  and  rose  late ;  for  I  took  up  Montaigne  (it  was  Haz- 
litt's  translation)  and  had  been  reading  his  journey  t< 
Italy  a  good  while  before  she  appeared. 

I  had  expected  (the  more  shame  for  me,  having  no 
other  ground  of  such  expectation  than  that  she  was  a 
literary  woman)  to  see  a  very  homely,  uncouth,  elderly 
personage,  and  was  quite  agreeably  disappointed  by  her 
aspect.  She  was  rather  uncommonly  tall,  and  had  a 


124         RECOLLECTIONS   OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

striking  and  expressive  face,  dark  hair,  dark  eyes,  which 
shone  with  an  inward  light  as  soon  as  she  began  to  speak, 
and  by-and-by  a  color  came  into  her  cheeks  and  made 
her  look  almost  young.  Not  that  she  really  was  so ;  she 
must  have  been  beyond  middle-age :  and  there  was  no 
imkindness  in  coming  to  that  conclusion,  because,  making 
allowance  for  years  and  ill-health,  I  could  suppose  her  to 
have  been  handsome  and  exceedingly  attractive  once. 
Though  wholly  estranged  from  society,  there  was  little 
or  no  restraint  or  embarrassment  in  her  manner :  lonely 
people  are  generally  glad  to  give  utterance  to  their  pent- 
up  ideas,  and  often  bubble  over  with  them  as  freely  as 
children  with  their  new-found  syllables.  I  cannot  tell 
how  it  came  about,  but  we  immediately  found  ourselves 
taking  a  friendly  and  familiar  tone  together,  and  began 
to  talk  as  if  we  had  known  one  another  a  very  long  while. 
A  little  preliminary  correspondence  had  indeed  smoothed 
the  way,  and  we  had  a  definite  topic  in  the  contemplated 
publication  of  her  book. 

She  was  very  communicative  about  her  theory,  and 
would  have  been  much  more  so  had  I  desired  it ;  but, 
being  conscious  within  myself  of  a  sturdy  unbelief,  I 
deemed  it  fair  and  honest  rather  to  repress  than  draw 
her  out  upon  the  subject.  Unquestionably,  she  was  a 
monomaniac ;  these  overmastering  ideas  about  the  au 
thorship  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  and  the  deep  political 
philosophy  concealed  beneath  the  surface  of  them,  had 
completely  thrown  her  off  her  balance  ;  but  at  the  same 
time  they  had  wonderfully  developed  her  intellect,  and 
made  her  what  she  could  not  otherwise  have  become.  It 
was  a  very  singular  phenomenon  :  a  system  of  philosophy 
growing  up  in  this  woman's  mind  without  her  volition,— 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED   WOMAN.         125 

contrary,  in  fact,  to  the  determined  resistance  of  her  voli 
tion,  —  and  substituting  itself  in  the  place  of  every  tiling 
that  originally  grew  there.  To  have  based  such  a  sys 
tem  on  fancy,  and  unconsciously  elaborated  it  for  herself, 
was  almost  as  wonderful  as  really  to  have  found  it  in  the 
plays.  But,  in  a  certain  sense,  she  did  actually  find  it 
there.  Shakspeare  has  surface  beneath  surface,  to  an 
Immeasurable  depth,  adapted  to  the  plummet-line  of 
every  reader ;  his  works  present  many  phases  of  truth, 
each  with  scope  large  enough  to  fill  a  contemplative 
mind.  Whatever  you  seek  in  him  you  will  surely  dis 
cover,  provided  you  seek  truth.  There  is  no  exhausting 
the  various  interpretation  of  his  symbols ;  and  a  thousand 
years  hence,  a  world  of  new  readers  will  possess  a  whole 
library  of  new  books,  as  we  ourselves  do,  in  these  vol 
umes  old  already.  I  had  half  a  mind  to  suggest  to  Miss 
Bacon  this  explanation  of  her  theory,  but  forbore,  be 
cause  (as  I  could  readily  perceive)  she  had  as  princely 
i  spirit  as  Queen  Elizabeth  herself,  and  would  at  once 
have  motioned  me  from  the  room. 

I  had  heard,  long  ago,  that  she  believed  that  the  ma 
terial  evidences  of  her  dogma  as  to  the  authorship,  to 
gether  with  the  key  of  the  new  philosophy,  would  be 
found  buried  in  Shakspeare's  grave.  Recently,  as  I 
understood  her,  this  notion  had  been  somewhat  modified, 
and  was  now  accurately  defined  and  fully  developed  in 
her  mind,  with  a  result  of  perfect  certainty.  In  Lord 
Bacon's  letters,  on  which  she  laid  her  finger  as  she 
spoke,  she  had  discovered  the  key  and  clue  to  the  whole 
mystery.  There  were  definite  and  minute  instructions 
how  to  find  a  will  and  other  documents  relating  to  the 
conclave  of  Elizabethan  philosophers,  which  were  con- 


126        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

ceaJed  (when  and  by  whom  she  did  not  inform  me)  in  a 
hollow  space  in  the  under  surface  of  Shakspeare's  grave 
stone.  Thus  the  terrible  prohibition  to  remove  the  stone 
was  accounted  for.  The  directions,  she  intimated,  went 
completely  and  precisely  to  the  point,  obviating  all  diffi 
culties  in  the  way  of  coming  at  the  treasure,  and  even, 
cf  I  remember  right,  were  so  contrived  as  to  ward  off 
iny  troublesome  consequences  likely  to  ensue  from 
»he  interference  of  the  parish-officers.  All  that  Miss 
Hacon  now  remained  in  England  for  —  indeed,  the  object 
•bi  which  she  had  come  hither,  and  which  had  kept  her 
Aere  for  three  years  past  —  was  to  obtain  possession  of 
ihese  material  and  unquestionable  proofs  of  the  authen 
ticity  of  her  theory. 

Sh<5  communicated  all  this  strange  matter  in  a  low, 
i]uiet  tone  ;  while,  on  my  part,  I  listened  as  quietly,  and 
without  any  expression  of  dissent.  Controversy  against 
a  faith  so  settled  would  have  shut  her  up  at  once,  and 
chat,  too>  without  in  the  least  weakening  her  belief  in  the 
uxistenct,  of  those  treasures  of  the  tomb  ;  and  had  it  been 
l'<)ssible  to  convince  her  of  their  intangible  nature,  I  ap 
prehend  that  there  would  have  been  nothing  left  for  the 
poor  enthusiast  save  to  collapse  and  die.  She  frankly 
confessed  that  she  could  no  longer  bear  the  society  of 
those  who  did  not  at  least  lend  a  certain  sympathy  to  her 
views,  if  not  fully  share  in  them  ;  and  meeting  little  sym 
pathy  or  none,  she  had  now  entirely  secluded  herself 
from  v^e  world.  In  all  these  years,  she  had  seen  Mrs. 
Fariar  a  few  limes,  but  had  long  ago  given  her  up, — 
Carlyle  vince  or  twice,  but  not  of  late,  although  he  had 
received  Aei  Kmcny;  Mr.  Buchanan,  while  minister  in 
England,  kwA  im«w  called  on  her,  and  General  Campbell, 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  A  Gil  TED  WOMAN.         127 

our  Consul  in  London,  had  met  her  two  or  three  times  on 
business.  With  these  exceptions  which  she  marked  so 
scrupulously  that  it  was  perceptible  what  epochs  they 
were  in  the  monotonous  passage  of  her  days,  she  had 
lived  in  the  profoundest  solitude.  She  never  walked 
out ;  she  suffered  much  from  ill-health ;  and  yet,  she 
assured  me,  she  was  perfectly  happy. 

I  could  well  conceive  it ;  for  Miss  Bacon  imagined 
herself  to  have  received  (what  is  certainly  the  greatest 
boon  ever  assigned  to  mortals)  a  high  mission  in  the 
world,  with  adequate  powers  for  its  accomplishment ;  and 
lest  even  these  should  prove  insufficient,  she  had  faith 
that  special  interpositions  of  Providence  were  forwarding 
her  human  efforts.  This  idea  was  continually  coming  to 
the  surface,  during  our  interview.  She  believed,  for 
example,  that  she  had  been  providentially  led  to  her 
lodging-house  and  put  in  relations  with  the  good-natured 
grocer  and  his  family ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  considering 
what  a  savage  and  stealthy  tribe  the  London  lodging- 
house  keepers  usually  are,  the  honest  kindness  of  this 
man  and  his  household  appeared  to  have  been  little  less 
than  miraculous.  Evidently,  too,  she  thought  that  Prov 
idence  had  brought  me  forward  —  a  man  somewhat  con 
nected  with  literature  —  at  the  critical  juncture  when 
she  needed  a  negotiator  with  the  booksellers ;  and,  on 
my  part,  though  little  accustomed  to  regard  myself  as  a 
divine  minister,  and  though  I  might  even  have  preferred 
that  Providence  should  select  some  other  instrument,  I 
had  no  scruple  in  undertaking  to  do  what  I  could  for  her. 
Her  book,  as  I  could  see  by  turning  it  over,  was  a  very 
remarkable  one,  and  worthy  of  being  offered  to  the  pub 
lic,  which,  if  wise  enough  to  appreciate  it,  would  be 


128         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  TfOMAX. 

thankful  for  what  was  good  in  it  and  merciful  to  its 
faults.  It  was  founded  on  a  prodigious  error,  but  was 
"juilt  up  from  that  foundation  with  a  good  many  prodig 
ious  truths.  And,  at  all  events,  whether  I  could  aid  her 
literary  views  or  no,  it  would  have  been  both  rash  and 
impertinent  in  me  to  attempt  drawing  poor  Miss  Bacon 
out  of  her  delusions,  which  were  the  condition  on  which 
she  lived  in  comfort  and  joy,  and  in  the  exercise  of  great 
intellectual  power.  So  I  left  her  to  dream  as  she  pleased 
about  the  treasures  of  Shakspeare's  tombstone,  and  to 
form  whatever  designs  might  seem  good  to  herself  for 
obtaining  possession  of  them.  I  was  sensible  of  a  lady 
like  feeling  of  propriety  in  Miss  Bacon,  and  a  New- 
England  orderliness  in  her  character,  and,  in  spite  of  her 
bewilderment,  a  sturdy  common-sense,  which  I  trusted 
\vould  begin  to  operate  at  the  right  time,  and  keep  her 
from  any  actual  extravagance.  And  as  regarded  this 
matter  of  the  tombstone,  so  it  proved. 

The  interview  lasted  above  an  hour,  during  which  she 
flowed  out  freely,  as  to  the  sole  auditor,  capable  of  any 
degree  of  intelligent  sympathy,  whom  she  had  met  with 
in  a  very  long  while.  Her  conversation  was  remarkably 
suggestive,  alluring  forth  one's  own  ideas  and  fantasies 
from  the  shy  places  where  they  usually  haunt.  She  \\  as 
indeed  an  admirable  talker,  considering  how  long  she 
had  held  her  tongue  for  lack  of  a  listener,  —  pleasant, 
sunny  and  shadowy,  often  piquant,  and  giving  glimpses 
of  all  a  woman's  various  and  readily  changeable  moods 
a -id  humors  ;  and  beneath  them  all  there  ran  a  deep  and 
powerful  under-current  of  earnestness,  which  did  not  fail 
to  produce  in  the  listener's  mind  something  like  a  tem 
porary  faith  in  what  she  herself  believed  so  fervently. 


RECOI  LECTIONS   OF  A  GIFTED   WOMAN.         129 

Bat  the  streets  of  London  are  not  favorable  to  enthusi 
asm?  of  this  kind,  nor,  in  fact,  are  they  likely  to  flourish 
anywhere  in  the  English  atmosphere  ;  so  that,  long  be 
fore  reaching  Paternoster  Row,  I  felt  that  it  would  be  a 
difficult  and  doubtful  matter  to  advocate  the  publication 
of  Miss  Bacon's  book.  Nevertheless,  it  did  finally  get 
published. 

Months  before  that  happened,  however,  Miss  Bacon 
had  taken  up  her  residence  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  drawn 
thither  by  the  magnetism  of  those  rich  secrets  which  she 
supposed  to  have  been  hidden  by  Raleigh,  or  Bacon,  or  I 
know  not  whom,  in  Shakspeare's  grave,  and  protected 
thcie  by  a  curse,  as  pirates  used  to  bury  their  gold  in 
the  guardianship  of  a  fiend.  She  took  a  humble  lodging 
and  began  to  haunt  the  churcn  like  a  ghost.  But  she 
did  not  condescend  to  any  stratagem  or  underhand  at 
tempt  to  violate  the  grave,  which,  had  she  been  capable 
of  admitting  such  an  idea,  might  possibly  have  been  ac 
complished  by  the  aid  of  a  resurrection-man.  As  her 
first  step,  she  made  acquaintance  with  the  clerk,  and  be 
gan  to  sound  him  as  to  the  feasibility  of  her  enterprise 
and  his  own  willingness  to  engage  in  it.  The  clerk  ap 
parently  listened  with  not  unfavorable  ears  ;  but,  as  his 
situation  (which  the  fees  of  pilgrims,  more  numerous 
than  at  any  Catholic  shrine,  render  lucrative)  would 
have  been  forfeited  by  any  malfeasance  in  office,  he 
stipulated  for  liberty  to  consult  the  vicar.  Miss  Bacon 
requested  to  tell  her  own  story  to  the  reverend  gentle 
man,  and  seems  to  have  been  received  by  him  with  the 
utmost  kindness,  and  even  to  have  succeeded  in  making 
a  certain  impression  on  his  mind  as  to  the  desirability  of 
the  search.  As  their  interview  had  been  under  the  seal 
9 


130        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

of  secrecy,  he  asked  permission  to  consult  a  friend,  who,  aa 
Miss  Bacon  either  found  out  or  surmised,  was  a  prac 
titioner  of  the  law.  What  the  legal  friend  advised  she 
did  not  learn ;  but  the  negotiation  continued,  and  cer 
tainly  was  never  broken  off  by  an  absolute  refusal  on  the 
vicar's  part.  He,  perhaps,  was  kindly  temporizing  with 
our  poor  countrywoman,  whom  an  Englishman  of  ordi 
nary  mould  woul'd  have  sent  to  a  lunatic  asylum  at 
once.  I  cannot  help  fancying,  however,  that  her  fa 
miliarity  with  the  events  of  Shakspeare's  life,  and  of  his 
death  and  burial,  (of  which  she  would  speak  as  if  she 
had  been  present  at  the  edge  of  the  grave,)  and  all  the 
history,  literature,  and  personalities  of  the  Elizabethan 
age,  together  with  the  prevailing  power  of  her  own  belief, 
and  the  eloquence  with  which  she  knew  how  to  enforce  it, 
had  really  gone  some  little  way  toward  making  a  con 
vert  of  the  good  clergyman.  If  so,  I  honor  him  above 
all  the  hierarchy  of  England. 

The  affair  certainly  looked  very  hopeful.  However 
erroneously,  Miss  Bacon  had  understood  from  the  vicar 
that  no  obstacles  would  be  interposed  to  the  investiga 
tion,  and  that  he  himself  would  sanction  it  with  his  pres 
ence.  It  was  to  take  place  after  nightfall ;  and  all  pre 
liminary  arrangements  being  made,  the  vicar  and  clerk 
professed  to  wait  only  her  word  in  order  to  set  abou 
ifting  the  awful  stone  from  the  sepulchre.  So,  at  least 
Miss  Bacon  believed ;  and  as  her  bewilderment  was  en 
tirely  in  her  own  thoughts,  and  never  disturbed  her  per 
ception  or  accurate  remembrance  of  external  things,  I 
see  no  reason  to  doubt  it,  except  it  be  the  tinge  of  ab 
surdity  in  the  fact.  But,  in  this  apparently  prosperous 
state  of  things,  her  own  convictions  began  to  faltei.  A 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN.         131 

doubt  stole  into  her  mind  whether  she  might  not  ha\e 
mistaken  the  depository  and  mode  of  concealment  of 
those  historic  treasures;  and  after  once  admitting  the 
doubt,  she  was  afraid  to  hazard  the  shock  of  uplifting 
the  stone  and  finding  nothing.  She  examined  the 
surface  of  the  gravestone,  and  endeavored,  without 
stirring  it,  to  estimate  whether  it  were  of  such  thick 
ness  as  to  be  capable  of  containing  the  archives  of 
the  Elizabethan  club.  She  went  over  anew  the  proofs, 
the  clues,  the  enigmas,  the  pregnant  sentences,  which  she 
had  discovered  in  Bacon's  letters  and  elsewhere,  and 
now  was  frightened  to  perceive  that  they  did  not  point 
so  definitely  to  Shakspeare's  tomb  as  she  had  hereto 
fore  supposed.  There  was  an  unmistakably  distinct  ref 
erence  to  a  tomb,  but  it  might  be  Bacon's,  or  Raleigh's, 
or  Spenser's  ;  and  instead  of  the  "  Old  Player,"  as 
she  profanely  called  him,  it  might  be  either  of  those 
three  illustrious  dead,  poet,  warrior,  or  statesman,  whose 
ashes,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  or  the  Tower  burial- 
ground,  or  wherever  they  sleep,  it  was  her  mission  to  dis 
turb.  It  is  very  possible,  moreover,  that  her  acute  mind 
may  always  have  had  a  lurking  and  deeply  latent  dis 
trust  of  its  own  fantasies,  and  that  this  now  became 
strong  enough  to  restrain  her  from  a  decisive  step. 

But  she  continued  to  hover  around  the  church,  and 
seems  to  have  had  full  freedom  of  entrance  in  the  day 
time,  and  special  license,  on  one  occasion  at  least,  at  a 
late  hour  of  the  night.  She  went  thither  with  a  dark- 
lantern,  which  could  but  twinkle  like  a  glow-worm 
through  the  volume  of  obscurity  that  filled  the  great 
dusky  edifice.  Groping  her  way  up  the  aisle  and  tow 
ards  the  chancel,  she  sat  down  on  the  elevated  part  of 


132         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

the  pavement  above  Shakspeare's  grave.  If  the  divine 
poet  really  wrote  the  inscription  there,  and  cared  as  much 
about  the  quiet  of  his  bones  as  its  deprecatory  earnest 
ness  would  imply,  it  was  time  for  those  crumbling  relics 
to  bestir  themselves  under  her  sacrilegious  feet.  But 
they  were  safe.  She  made  no  attempt  to  disturb  them  ; 
though,  I  believe,  she  looked  narrowly  into  the  crevices 
between  Shakspeare's  and  the  two  adjacent  stones,  and  in 
.some  way  satisfied  herself  that  her  single  strength  would 
suffice  to  lift  the  former,  in  case  of  need.  She  threw  the 
feeble  ray  of  her  lantern  up  towards  the  bust,  but  could 
not  make  it  visible  beneath  the  darkness  of  the  vaulted 
roof.  Had  she  been  subject  to  superstitious  terrors,  it  is 
impossible  to  conceive  of  a  situation  that  could  better 
entitle  her  to  feel  them,  for,  if  Shakspeare's  ghost  would 
rise  at  any  provocation,  it  must  have  shown  itself  then  ; 
but  it  is  my  sincere  belief,  that,  if  his  figure  had  ap 
peared  within  the  scope  of  her  dark-lantern,  in  his  slashed 
doublet  and  gown,  and  with  his  eyes  bent  on  her  beneath 
the  high,  bald  forehead,  just  as  we  see  him  in  the  bust, 
she  would  have  met  him  fearlessly  and  controverted  his 
claims  to  the  authorship  of  the  plays,  to  his  very  face. 
She  had  taught  herself  to  contemn  "  Lord  Leicester's 
groom "  (it  was  one  of  her  disdainful  epithets  for  the 
world's  incomparable  poet)  so  thoroughly,  that  even  his 
disembodied  spirit  would  hardly  have  found  civil  treat 
ment  at  Miss  Bacon's  hands. 

Her  vigil,  though  it  appears  to  have  had  no  definite 
object,  continued  far  into  the  night.  Several  times  she 
heard  a  low  movement  in  the  aisles  :'  a  stealthy,  dubious 
foot-fall  prowling  about  in  the  darkness,  now  here,  now 
there,  among  ,he  pillars  and  ancient  tombs,  as  if  some 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN.         133 

restless  inhabitant  of  the  latter  had  crept  forth  to  peep 
at  the  intruder.  By-and-by  the  clerk  made  his  appear 
ance,  and  confessed  that  he  had  been  watching  her  ever 
since  she  entered  the  church. 

About  this  time  it  was  that  a  strange  sort  of  weariness 
seems  to  have  fallen  upon  her :  her  toil  was  all  but  done, 
her  great  purpose,  as  she  believed,  on  the  very  point  of 
accomplishment,  when  she  began  to  regret  that  so  stu 
pendous  a  mission  had  been  imposed  on  the  fragility  of  a 
woman.  Her  faith  in  the  new  philosophy  was  as  mighty 
as  ever,  and  so  was  her  confidence  in  her  own  adequate 
development  of  it,  now  about  to  be  given  to  the  world ; 
yet  she  wished,  or  fancied  so,  that  it  might  never  have 
been  her  duty  to  achieve  this  unparalleled  task,  and  to 
stagger  feebly  forward  under  her  immense  burden  of  re 
sponsibility  and  renown.  So  far  as  her  personal  concern 
in  the  matter  went,  she  would  gladly  have  forfeited  the 
reward  of  her  patient  study  and  labor  for  so  many  years, 
her  exile  from  her  country  and  estrangement  from  her 
family  and  friends,  her  sacrifice  of  health  and  all  other 
interests  to  this  one  pursuit,  if  she  could  only  find  her 
self  free  to  dwell  in  Stratford  and  be  forgotten.  She 
liked  the  old  slumberous  town,  and  awarded  the  only 
praise  that  ever  I  knew  her  to  bestow  on  Shakspeare,  the 
individual  man,  by  acknowledging  that  his  taste  in  a  resi 
dence  was  good,  and  that  he  knew  how  to  choose  a  suit 
able  retirement  for  a  person  of  shy,  but  genial  tempera 
ment.  And  at  this  point,  I  cease  to  possess  the  meara 
of  tracing  her  vicissitudes  of  feeling  any  farther.  In 
consequence  of  some  advice  which  I  fancied  it  my  duty  to 
tender,  as  being  the  only  confidant  whom  she  now  had  in 
the  world,  I  fell  under  Miss  Bacon's  most  severe  and 


134:         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

passionate  displeasure,  and  was  cast  off  by  her  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye.  It  was  a  misfortune  to  which  her 
friends  were  always  particularly  liable  ;  but  I  think  that 
none  of  them  ever  loved,  or  even  respected,  her  most 
ingenuous  and  noble,  but  likewise  most  sensitive  and 
tumultuous  character,  the  less  for  it. 

At  that  time  her  book  was  passing  through  the  press. 
Without  prejudice  to  her  literary  ability,  it  must  be 
allowed  that  Miss  Bacon  was  wholly  unfit  to  prepare  her 
own  work  for  publication,  because,  among  many  other 
reasons,  she  was  too  thoroughly  in  earnest  to  know  what 
to  leave  out.  Every  leaf  and  line  was  sacred,  for  all 
had  been  written  under  so  deep  a  conviction  of  truth  as 
to  assume,  in  her  eyes,  the  aspect  of  inspiration.  A  prac 
tised  book-maker,  with  entire  control  of  her  materials, 
would  have  shaped  out  a  duodecimo  volume  full  of  elo 
quent  and  ingenious  dissertation,  —  criticisms  which  quite 
take  the  color  and  pungency  out  of  other  people's  critical 
remarks  on  Shakspeare,  —  philosophic  truths  which  she 
imagined  herself  to  have  found  at  the  roots  of  his  concep 
tions,  and  which  certainly  come  from  no  inconsiderable 
depth  somewhere.  There  was  a  great  amount  of  rubbish, 
which  any  competent  editor  would  have  shovelled  out  of 
the  way.  But  Miss  Bacon  thrust  the  whole  bulk  of  in 
spiration  and  nonsense  into  the  press  in  a  lump,  and  there 
tumbled  out  a  ponderous  octavo  volume,  which  fell  with 
a  dead  thump  at  the  feet  of  the  public,  and  has  never 
l>een  picked  up.  A  few  persons  turned  over  one  or  two 
of  the  leaves,  as  it  lay  there,  and  essayed  to  kick  the  vol 
ume  deeper  into  the  mud ;  for  they  were  the  hack  critics 
of  the  minor  periodical  press  in  London,  than  whom,  I 
suppose,  though  excellent  fellows  in  their  way,  there  are 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN.         135 

no  gentlemen  in  the  world  less  sensible  of  any  sanctity  in 
a  book,  or  less  likely  to  recognize  an  author's  heart  in  it, 
or  more  utterly  careless  about  bruising,  if  they  do  recog< 
nize  it.  It  is  their  trade.  They  could  not  do  otherwise. 
I  never  thought  of  blaming  them.  It  was  not  for  such 
an  Englishman  as  one  of  these  to  get  beyond  the  idea 
that  an  assault  was  meditated  on  England's  greatest  poet. 
From  the  scholars  and  critics  of  her  own  country,  indeed, 
Miss  Bacon  might  have  looked  for  a  worthier  apprecia 
tion,  because  many  of  the  best  of  them  have  higher  culti 
vation,  and  finer  and  deeper  literary  sensibilities  than  all 
but  the  very  profoundest  and  brightest  of  Englishmen. 
But  they  are  not  a  courageous  body  of  men ;  they  dare 
not  think  a  truth  that  has  an  odor  of  absurdity,  lest  they 
should  feel  themselves  bound  to  speak  it  out.  If  any 
American  ever  wrote  a  word  in  her  behalf,  Miss  Bacon 
never  knew  it,  nor  did  I.  Our  journalists  at  once  repub- 
lished  some  of  the  most  brutal  vituperations  of  the  Eng 
lish  press,  thus  pelting  their  poor  countrywoman  with 
stolen  mud,  without  even  waiting  to  know  whether  the 
ignominy  was  deserved.  And  they  never  have  known  it, 
to  this  day,  nor  ever  will. 

The  next  intelligence  that  I  had  of  Miss  Bacon  was 
by  a  letter  from  the  mayor  of  Stratford-on-Avon.  He 
was  a  medical  man,  and  wrote  both  in  his  official  and 
professional  character,  telling  me  that  an  American  lady, 
who  had  recently  published  what  the  mayor  called  a 
*'  Shakspeare  book,"  was  afflicted  with  insanity.  In  a 
lucid  interval  she  had  referred  to  me,  as  a  person  who 
had  some  knowledge  of  her  family  and  affairs.  What 
she  may  have  suffered  before  her  intellect  gave  way, 
we  had  better  not  try  to  imagine.  No  author  had  ever 


i36         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

hoped  so  confidently  as  she ;  none  ever  failed  more  ut 
terly.  A  superstitious  fancy  might  suggest  that  the 
anathema  on  Shakspeare's  tombstone  had  fallen  heavily 
on  her  head  in  requital  of  even  the  unaccomplished  pur 
pose  of  disturbing  the  dust  beneath,  and  that  the  "  Old 
Player"  had  kept  so  quietly  in  his  grave,  on  the  night  of 
her  vigil,  because  he  foresaw  how  soon  and  terribly  he 
would  be  avenged.  But  if  that  benign  spirit  takes  any 
care  or  cognizance  of  such  things  now,  he  has  surely  re 
quited  the  injustice  that  she  sought  to  do  him  —  the  high 
justice  that  she  really  did  —  by  a  tenderness  of  love  and 
pity  of  which  only  he  could  be  capable.  What  matters 
it,  though  she  called  him  by  some  other  name  ?  He  had 
wrougK  a  greater  miracle  on  her  than  on  all  the  world 
besides.  This  bewildered  enthusiast  had  recognized  a 
depth  in  the  man  whom  she  decried,  which  scholars, 
critics,  and  learned  societies,  devoted  to  the  elucidation 
of  his  unrivalled  scenes,  had  never  imagined  to  exist 
there.  She  had  paid  him  the  loftiest  honor  that  all  these 
ages  of  renown  have  been  able  to  accumulate  upon  his 
memory.  And  when,  not  many  months  after  the  out 
ward  failure  of  her  lifelong  object,  she  passed  into  the 
better  world,  I  know  not  why  we  should  hesitate  to  be 
lieve  that  the  immortal  poet  may  have  met  her  on  the 
threshold  and  led  her  in,  reassuring  her  with  friendly  and 
comfortable  words,  and  thanking  her  (yet  with  a  smile 
of  gentle  humor  in  his  eyes  at  the  thought  of  certain 
mistaken  speculations)  for  having  interpreted  him  to 
mankind  so  well. 

I  believe  that  it  has  been  the  fate  of  this  remarkable 
book  never  to  have  had  more  than  a  single  reader.  I 
myself  am  acquainted  with  it  only  in  insulated  chapters 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN.         137 

and  scattered  pagp&  and  paragraphs.  But,  since  my  re 
turn  to  America,  a  young  man  of  genius  and  enthusiasm 
has  assured  me  that  he  has  positively  read  the  book  from 
beginning  to  end,  and  is  completely  a  convert  to  its  doc 
trines.  It  belongs  to  him,  therefore,  and  not  to  me, — 
whom,  in  almost  the  last  letter  that  I  received  from  her 
she  declared  unworthy  to  meddle  with  her  work,  —  it 
belongs  surely  to  this  one  individual,  who  has  done  her 
so  much  justice  as  to  know  what  she  wrote,  to  place  Miss 
Bacon  in  her  due  position  before  the  public  and  posterity. 
This  has  been  too  sad  a- story.  To  lighten  the  recol 
lection  of  it,  I  will  think  of  my  stroll  homeward  past 
Charlecote  Park,  where  I  beheld  the  most  stately  elms, 
singly,  in  clumps,  and  in  groves,  scattered  all  about  in 
the  sunniest,  shadiest,  sleepiest  fashion ;  so  that  I  could 
not  but  believe  in  a  lengthened,  loitering,  drowsy  enjoy, 
ment  which  these  trees  must  have  in  their  existence. 
Diffused  over  slow-paced  centuries,  it  need  not  be  keen 
nor  bubble  into  thrills  and  ecstasies,  like  the  momentary 
delights  of  short-lived  human  beings.  They  were  civil 
ized  trees,  known  to  man  and  befriended  by  him  for  ages 
past.  There  is  an  indescribable  difference  —  as  I  believe 
I  have  heretofore  endeavored  to  express  —  between  the 
tamed,  but  by  no  means  effete  (on  the  contrary,  the 
richer  and  more  luxuriant)  Nature  of  England,  and  the 
rude,  shaggy,  barbarous  Nature  which  offers  us  its  raciei 
companionship  in  America.  No  less  a  change  has  been 
wrought  among  the  wildest  creatures  that  inhabit  what 
the  English  call  their  forests.  By-and-by,  among  those 
refined  and  venerable  trees,  I  saw  a  large  herd  of  deer, 
mostly  reclining,  but  some  standing  in  picturesque  groups, 
while  the  stags  threw  their  large  antlers  aloft,  as  if  the} 


138         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

had  been  taught  to  make  themselves  tributary  to  the 
scenic  effect.  Some  were  running  fleetly  about,  vanish 
ing  from  light  into  shadow  and  glancing  forth  again,  with 
here  and  there  a  little  fawn  careering  at  its  mother's 
heels.  These  deer  are  almost  in  the  same  relation  to 
the  wild,  natural  state  of  their  kind  that  the  trees  of  an 
English  park  hold  to  the  rugged  growth  of  an  American 
forest.  They  have  held  a  certain  intercourse  with  man 
for  immemorial  years ;  and,  most  probably,  the  stag  that 
Shakspeare  killed  was  one  of  the  progenitors  of  this  very 
nerd,  and  may  himself  have  been  a  partly  civilized  and 
humanized  deer,  though  in  a  less  degree  than  these  re 
mote  posterity.  They  are  a  little  wilder  than  sheep,  bvit 
they  do  not  snuff  the  air  at  the  approach  of  human 
beings,  nor  evince  much  alarm  at  their  pretty  close 
proximity;  although  if  you  continue  to  advance,  they 
toss  their  heads  and  take  to  their  heels  in  a  kind  of 
mimic  terror,  or  something  akin  to  feminine  skittishness, 
with  a  dim  remembrance  or  tradition,  as  it  were,  of  their 
having  come  of  a  wild  stock.  They  have  so  long  been 
fed  and  protected  by  man,  that  they  must  have  lost  many 
of  their  native  instincts,  and,  I  suppose,  could  not  live 
comfortably  through  even  an  English  winter  without 
human  help.  One  is  sensible  of  a  gentle  scorn  at  them 
for  such  dependency,  but  feels  none  the  less  kindly  dis 
posed  towards  the  half-domesticated  race ;  and  it  may 
have  been  his  observation  of  these  tamer  characteristics 
in  the  Charlecote  herd  that  suggested  to  Shakspeare  the 
tender  and  pitiful  description  of  a  wounded  stag,  in  "  As 
You  Like  It." 

At  a  distance  of  some  hundreds  of  yards  from  Charle 
cote  Hall,  and  almost  hidden  by  the  trees  between  it  and 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED    WOMAN.         139 

the  roadside,  is  an  old  brick  archway  and  porter's  lodge. 
In  connection  with  this  entrance  there  appears  to  have 
been  a  wall  and  an  ancient  moat,  the  latter  of  which  is 
still  visible,  a  shallow,  grassy  scoop  along  the  base  of  an 
embankment  of  the  lawn.  About  fifty  yards  within  the 
gateway  stands  the  house,  forming  three  sides  of  a  square 
with  three  gables  in  a  row  on  the  front,  and  on  each  of 
the  two  wings ;  and  there  are  several  towers  and  turrets 
at  the  angles,  together  with  projecting  windows,  antique 
balconies,  and  other  quaint  ornaments  suitable  to  the  half- 
Gothic  taste  in  which  the  edifice  was  built.  Over  the 
gateway  is  the  Lucy  coat-of-arms,  emblazoned  in  its 
proper  colors.  The  mansion  dates  from  the  early  days 
of  Elizabeth,  and  probably  looked  very  much  the  same 
as  now  when  Shakspeare  was  brought  before  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy  for  outrages  among  his  deer.  The  impression  is 
not  that  of  gray  antiquity,  but  of  stable  and  time-honored 
gentility,  still  as  vital  as  ever. 

It  is  a  most  delightful  place.  All  about  the  house  and 
domain  there  is  a  perfection  of  comfort  and  domestic 
taste,  an  amplitude  of  convenience,  which  could  have 
been  brought  about  only  by  the  slow  ingenuity  and  labor 
of  many  successive  generations,  intent  upon  adding  all 
possible  improvement  to  the  home  where  years  gone  by 
and  years  to  come  give  a  sort  of  permanence  to  the  in 
tangible  present.  An  American  is  sometimes  tempted 
to  fancy  that  only  by  this  long  process  can  real  homes  be 
produced.  One  man's  lifetime  is  not  enough  for  the  ac 
complishment  of  such  a  work  of  Art  and  Nature,  almost 
the  greatest  merely  temporary  one  that  is  confided  to 
him;  too  little,  at  any  rate,  —  yet  perhaps  too  long 
when  he  is  discouraged  by  the  idea  that  he  must  make 


140          RKCOLLECTIOXS   OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN. 

his  house  warm  and  delightful  for  a  miscellaneous  race 
of  successors,  of  whom  the  one  thing  certain  is,  that  his 
own  grandchildren  will  not  be  among  them.  Such  re- 
pinings  as  are  here  suggested,  however,  come  only  from 
the  fact,  that,  bred  in  English  habits  of  thought,  as  most 
of  us  are,  we  have  not  yet  modified  our  instincts  to  the 
lecessities  of  our  new  forms  of  life.  A  lodging  in  a  wig 
warn  or  under  a  tent  has  really  as  many  advantages, 
when  we  come  to  know  them,  as  a  home  beneath  the 
roof-tree  of  Charlecote  Hall.  But,  alas !  our  philosophers 
have  not  yet  taught  us  what  is  best,  nor  have  our  poets 
sung  us  what  is  beautifullest,  in  the  kind  of  life  that  we 
must  lead  ;  and  therefore  we  still  read  the  old  English 
wisdom,  and  harp  upon  the  ancient  strings.  And  thence 
it  happens,  that,  when  we  look  at  a  time-honored  hall,  it 
seems  more  possible  for  men  who  inherit  such  a  home, 
than  for  ourselves,  to  lead  noble  and  graceful  lives, 
quietly  doing  good  and  lovely  things  as  their  daily 
work,  and  achieving  deeds  of  simple  greatness  when 
circumstances  require  them.  I  sometimes  apprehend 
that  our  institutions  may  perish  before  we  shall  have 
discovered  the  most  precious  of  the  possibilities  which 
they  involve. 


LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER. 

AFTER  my  first  visit  to  Leamington  Spa,  I  went  by 
an  indirect  route  to  Lichfield,  and  put  up  at  the  Black 
Swan.  Had  I  known  where  to  find  it,  I  would  much 
rather  have  established  myself  at  the  inn  formerly  kept 
by  the  worthy  Mr.  Boniface,  so  famous  for  his  ale  in 
Farquhar's  time.  The  Black  Swan  is  an  old-fashioned 
hotel,  its  street-front  being  penetrated  by  an  arched  pas 
sage,  in  either  side  of  which  is  an  entrance-door  to  the 
different  parts  of  the  house,  and  through  which,  and  over 
the  large  stones  of  its  pavement,  all  vehicles  and  horse 
men  rumble  and  clatter  into  an  enclosed  court-yard,  with 
a  thunderous  uproar  among  the  contiguous  rooms  and 
chambers.  I  appeared  to  be  the  only  guest  of  the  spa 
cious  establishment,  but  may  have  had  a  few  fellow-lodgers 
hidden  in  their  separate  parlors,  and  utterly  eschewing 
that  community  of  interests  which  is  the  characteristic 
feature  of  life  in  an  American  hotel.  At  any  rate,  I  had 
the  great,  dull,  dingy,  and  dreary  coffee-room,  with  its 
heavy  old  mahogany  chairs  and  tables,  all  to  myself,  an 
not  a  soul  to  exchange  a  word  with,  except  the  waiter, 
who,  like  most  of  his  class  in  England,  had  evidently 
left  his  conversational  abilities  uncultivated.  No  former 
practice  of  solitary  living,  nor  habits  of  reticence,  nor 
well-tested  self-dependence  for  occupation  of  mind  and 


112  LICH FIELD  AND   UTTOXETER. 

amusement,  can  quite  avail,  as  I  now  proved,  to  dissipate 
the  ponderous  gloom  of  an  English  coffee-room  under 
such  circumstances  as  these,  with  no  book  at  hand  save 
the  county-directory,  nor  any  newspaper  but  a  torn  local 
journal  of  five  days  ago.  So  I  buried  myself,  betimes,  in 
a  huge  heap  of  ancient  feathers,  (there  is  no  other  kind  of 
bed  in  these  old  inns,)  let  my  head  sink  into  an  unsub 
stantial  pillow,  and  slept  a  stifled  sleep,  infested  with 
such  a  fragmentary  confusion  of  dreams  that  I  took  them 
to  be  a  medley,  compounded  of  the  night-troubles  of  all 
ruy  predecessors  in  that  same  unrestful  couch.  And 
when  1  awoke,  the  musty  odor  of  a  by-gone  century 
was  in  my  nostrils  —  a  faint,  elusive  smell,  of  which  I 
never  had  any  conception  before  crossing  the  Atlantic. 
In  the  morning,  after  a  mutton-chop  and  a  cup  of  chic- 
cory  in  the  dusky  coffee-room,  I  went  forth  and  bewildered 
myself  a  little  while  among  the  crooked  streets,  in  quest 
of  one  or  two  objects  that  had  chiefly  attracted  me  to  the 
spot.  The  city  is  of  very  ancient  date,  and  its  name  in 
the  old  Saxon  tongue,  has  a  dismal  import  that  would 
apply  well,  in  these  days  and  forever  henceforward,  to 
many  an  unhappy  locality  in  our  native  land.  Lichfield 
signifies  "The  Field  of  the  Dead  Bodies"  — an  epithet, 
however,  which  the  town  did  not  assume  in  remembrance 
of  a  battle,  but  which  probably  sprung  up  by  a  natural 
process,  like  a  sprig  of  rue  or  other  funereal  weed,  out  of 
the  graves  of  two  princely  brethers,  sons  of  a  pagan  king 
of  Mercia,  who  were  converted  by  Saint  Chad,  and  after 
wards  martyred  for  their  Christian  faith.  Nevertheless, 
I  was  but  little  interested  in  the  legends  of  the  remote 
antiquity  of  Lichfield,  being  drawn  thither  partly  to  see 
its  beautiful  cathedral,  and  still  more,  I  believe,  because 


L1CHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER.  143 

it  was  the  birthplace  of  Dr.  Johnson,  with  whose  sturdy 
English  character  I  became  acquainted,  at  a  very  early 
period  of  my  life,  through  the  good  offices  of  Mr.  Boswell. 
In  truth,  he  seems  as  familiar  to  my  recollection,  and 
almost  as  vivid  in  his  personal  aspect  to  my  mind's  eye, 
as  the  kindly  figure  of  my  own  grandfather.  It  is  only 
a  solitary  child  —  left  much  to  such  wild  modes  of  cul 
ture  as  he  chooses  for  himself  while  yet  ignorant  what 
culture  means,  standing  on  tiptoe  to  pull  down  books 
from  no  very  lofty  shelf,  and  then  shutting  himself  up,  as 
it  were,  between  the  leaves,  going  astray  through  the 
volume  at  his  own  pleasure,1  and  comprehending  it  rather 
by  his  sensibilities  and  affections  than  his  intellect  —  that 
child  is  the  only  student  that  ever  gets  the  sort  of  inti 
macy  which  I  am  now  thinking  of,  with  a  literary  per 
sonage.  I  do  not  remember,  indeed,  ever  caring  much 
about  any  of  the  stalwart  Doctor's  grandiloquent  produc 
tions,  except  his  two  stern  and  masculine  poems,  "  Lon 
don,"  and  "  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes  " ;  it  was  as 
a  man,  a  talker,  and  a  humorist,  that  I  knew  and  loved 
him,  appreciating  many  of  his  qualities  perhaps  more 
thoroughly  than  I  do  now,  though  never  seeking  to  put 
my  instinctive  perception  of  his  character  into  language. 
Beyond  all  question,  I  might  have  had  a  wiser  friend 
than  he.  The  atmosphere  in  which  alone  he  breathed 
was  dense ;  his  awful  dread  of  death  showed  how  much 
muddy  imperfection  was  to  be  cleansed  out  of  him, 
before  he  could  be  capable  of  spiritual  existence ;  ho 
meddled  only  with  the  surface  of  life,  and  never  cared 
to  penetrate  farther  than  to  ploughshare  depth ;  his  very 
sense  and  sagacity  were  but  a  one-eyed  clear-sighted 
ness.  I  laughed  at  him,  sometimes,  standing  beside  hia 


144  LICHFIELD  AXD  UTTOXETER. 

knee.  And  yet,  considering  that  my  native  propensities 
were  towards  Fairy  Land,  and  also  how  much  yeast  is 
generally  mixed  up  with  the  mental  sustenance  of  a  New 
Englander,  it  may  not  have  been  altogether  amiss,  in 
those  childish  and  boyish  days,  to  keep  pace  with  this 
heavy-footed  traveller  and  feed  on  the  gross  diet  that  he 
carried  in  his  knapsack.  It  is  wholesome  food  even  now. 
And,  then,  how  English !  Many  of  the  latent  sympathies 
that  enabled  me  to  enjoy  the  Old  Country  so  well,  and 
that  so  readily  amalgamated  themselves  with  the  Amer 
ican  ideas  that  seemed  most  adverse  to  them,  may  have 
been  derived  from,  or  fostered  and  kept  alive  by,  the 
great  English  moralist.  Never  was  a  descriptive  epithet 
more  nicely  appropriate  than  that !  Dr.  Johnson's  mor 
ality  was  as  English  an  article  as  a  beefsteak. 

The  city  of  Lichfield  (only  the  cathedral-towns  are 
called  cities,  in  England)  stands  on  an  ascending  site. 
It  has  not  so  many  old  gabled  houses  as  Coventry,  for 
example,  but  still  enough  to  gratify  an  American  appetite 
for  the  antiquities  of  domestic  architecture.  The  people, 
too,  have  an  old-fashioned  way  with  them,  and  stare  at 
the  passing  visitor,  as  if  the  railway  had  not  yet  quite  ac 
customed  them  to  the  novelty  of  strange  faces  moving 
along  their  ancient  sidewalks.  The  old  women  whom  I 
met,  in  several  instances,  dropt  me  a  courtesy ;  and  as  they 
were  of  decent  and  comfortable  exterior,  and  kept  quietly 
on  their  way  without  pause  or  further  greeting,  it  cer 
tainly  was  not  allowable  to  interpret  their  little  act  of 
respect  as  a  modest  method  of  asking  for  sixpence ;  so 
that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  considering  it  a  remnant  of  the 
reverential  and  hospitable  manners  of  elder  times,  when 
the  rare  presence  of  a  stranger  might  be  deemed  worth 


LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETKR.  Ii5 

a  general  acknowledgment.  Positively,  •  coming  from 
such  humble  sources,  I  took  it  all  the  more  as  a  welcome 
on  behalf  of  the  inhabitants,  and  would  not  have  ex 
changed  it  for  an  invitation  from  the  mayor  and  magis 
trates  to  a  public  dinner.  Yet  I  wish,  merely  for  the 
experiment's  sake,  that  I  could  have  emboldened  myself 
to  hold  out  the  aforesaid  sixpence  to  at  least  one  of  the 
old  ladies. 

In  my  wanderings  about  town,  I  came  to  an  artificial 
piece  of  water,  called  the  Minster  Pool.  It  fills  the  im 
mense  cavity  in  a  ledge  of  rock,  whence  the  building 
materials  of  the  cathedral  were  quarried  out  a  great 
many  centuries  ago.  I  should  never  have  guessed  the 
little  lake  to  be  of  man's  creation,  so  very  pretty  and 
quietly  picturesque  an  object  has  it  grown  to  be,  with  its 
green  banks,  and  the  old  trees  hanging  over  its  glassy 
surface,  in  which  you  may  see  reflected  some  of  the  bat 
tlements  of  the  majestic  structure  that  once  lay  here  in 
unshaped  stone.  Some  little  children  stood  on  the  edge 
of  the  Pool,  angling  with  pin-hooks  ;  and  the  scene  re 
minded  me  (though  really  to  be  quite  fair  with  the 
reader,  the  gist  of  the  analogy  has  now  escaped  me,) 
of  that  mysterious  lake  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  which  had 
once  been  a  palace  and  a  city,  and  where  a  fisherman 
used  to  pull  out  the  former  inhabitants  in  the  guise  of 
enchanted  fishes.  There  is  no  need  of  fanciful  associa 
tions  to  make  the  spot  interesting.  It  was  in  the  porch 
of  one  of  the  houses,  in  the  street  that  runs  beside  the 
Minster  Pool,  that  Lord  Brooke  was  slain,  in  the  time 
of  the  Parliamentary  war,  by  a  shot  from  the  battle 
ments  of  the  cathedral,  which  was  then  held  by  the 

Royalists  as  a  fortress.     The  incident  is  commemorated 
10 


U6  LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER. 

by   an    inscription   on  a  stone,  inlaid   into  the  wall   of 
the  Louse. 

I  know  not  what  rank  the  Cathedral  of  Lichfield 
holds  among  its  sister  edifices  in  England,  as  a  piece  ot 
magnificent  architecture.  Except  that  of  Chester,  (the 
grim  and  simple  nave  of  which  stands  yet  unrivalled  in 
my  memory,)  and  one  or  two  small  ones  in  North  Wales, 
hardly  worthy  of  the  name  of  cathedrals,  it  was  the  first 
that  I  had  seen.  To  my  uninstructed  vision,  it  seemed 
the  object  best  worth  gazing  at  in  the  whole  world  ;  and 
now,  after  beholding  a  great  many  more,  I  remember  it 
with  less  prodigal  admiration  only  because  others  are 
as  magnificent  as  itself.  The  traces  remaining  in  my 
memory  represent  it  as  airy  rather  than  massive.  A 
multitude  of  beautiful  shapes  appeared  to  be  compre 
liended  within  its  single  outline ;  it  was  a  kind  of  kalei 
doscopic  mystery,  so  rich  a  variety  of  aspects  did  it 
assume  from  each  altered  point  of  view,  through  tho 
presentation  of  a  different  face,  and  the  rearrangement 
of  its  peaks  and  pinnacles  and  the  three  battlemented 
towers,  with  the  spires  that  shot  heavenward  from  all 
three,  but  one  loftier  than  its  fellows.  Thus  it  im 
pressed  you,  at  every  change,  as  a  newly  created  struc 
ture  of  the  passing  moment,  in  which  yet  you  lovingly 
recognized  the  half-vanished  structure  of  the  instant 
before,  and  felt,  moreover,  a  joyful  faith  in  the  inde 
structible  existence  of  all  this  cloudlike  vicissitude.  A 
Gothic  cathedral  is  surely  the  most  wonderful  work 
which  mortal  man  has  yet  achieved,  so  vast,  so  intricate, 
and  so  profoundly  simple,  with  such  strange,  delightful 
recesses  in  its  grand  figure,  so  difficult  to  comprehend 
within  one  idea,  and  yet  all  so  consonant  that  it  ulti- 


LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER.  147 

mately  draws  the  beholder  and  his  universe  into  its  har 
mony.  It  is  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that  is  vast 
enough  and  rich  enough. 

Not  that  I  felt,  or  was  worthy  to  feel,  an  unmingled 
enjoyment  in  gazing  at  this  wonder.  I  could  not  elevate 
myself  to  its  spiritual  height,  any  more  than  I  cduld  have 
climbed  from  the  ground  to  the  summit  of  one  of  its  pin 
nacles.  Ascending  but  a  little  way,  I  continually  fell 
back  and  lay  in  a  kind  of  despair,  conscious  that  a  flood 
of  uncomprehended  beauty  was  pouring  down  upon  me, 
of  which  I  could  appropriate  only  the  minutest  portion. 
After  a  hundred  years,  incalculably  as  my  higher  sympa 
thies  might  be  invigorated  by  so  divine  an  employment, 
I  should  still  be  a  gazer  from  below  and  at  an  awful 
distance,  as  yet  remotely  excluded  from  the  interior 
mystery.  But  it  was  something  gained,  even  to  have 
that  painful  sense  of  my  own  limitations,  ancl  that  half- 
smothered  yearning  to  soar  beyond  them.  The  cathedral 
showed  me  how  earthly  I  was,  but  yet  whispered  deeply 
of  immortality.  After  all,  this  was  probably  the  best 
lesson  that  it  could  bestow,  and,  taking  it  as  thoroughly 
as  possible  home  to  my  heart,  I  was  fain  to  be  content. 
If  the  truth  must  be  told,  my  ill-trained  enthusiasm  soon 
flagged,  and  I  began  to  lose  the  vision  of  a  spiritual  or 
ideal  edifice  behind  the  time-worn  and  weather-stained 
front  of  the  actual  structure.  Whenever  that  is  the  case, 
it  is  most  reverential  to  look  another  way  ;  but  the  mood 
disposes  one  to  minute  investigation,  and  I  took  advan 
tage  of  it  to  examine  the  intricate  and  multitudinous  adorn 
ment  that  was  lavished  on  the  exterior  wall  of  this  great 
church.  Everywhere,  there  were  empty  niches  where 
statues  had  been  thrown  down,  and  here  ancl  there  a 


148  LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER. 

statue  still  lingered  in  its  niche  ;  and  over  the  chief  en« 
trance,  and  extending  across  the  whole  breadth  of  the 
building,  was  a  row  of  angels,  sainted  personages,  martyrs, 
and  kings,  sculptured  in  reddish  stone.  Being  much  cor 
roded  by  the  moist  English  atmosphere,  during  four  or 
fivo  hundred  winters  that  they  had  stood  there,  these 
benign  and  majestic  figures  perversely  put  me  in  mind  of 
the  appearance  of  a  sugar  image,  after  a  child  has  been 
holding  it  in  his  mouth.  The  venerable  infant  Time  has 
evidently  found  them  sweet  morsels. 

Inside  of  the  minster  there  is  a  long  and  lofty  nave, 
transepts  of  the  same  height,  and  side-aisles  and  chapels, 
dim  nooks  of  holiness,  where  in  catholic  times  the  lamps 
were  continually  burning  before  the  richly  decorated 
shrines  of  saints.  In  the  audacity  of  my  ignorance,  as 
I  humbly  acknowledge  it  to  have  been,  I  criticised  this 
great  interior  as  too  much  broken  into  compartments,  and 
shorn  of  half  its  rightful  impressiveness  by  the  interposi 
tion  of  a  screen  betwixt  the  nave  and  chancel.  It  did  not 
spread  itself  in  breadth  but  ascended  to  the  roof  in  lofty 
narrowness.  One  large  body  of  worshippers  might  have 
knelt  down  in  the  nave,  others  in  each  of  the  transepts, 
and  smaller  ones  in  the  side-aisles,  besides  an  indefinite 
number  of  esoteric  enthusiasts  in  the  mysterious  sanctities 
beyond  the  screen.  Thus  it  seemed  to  typify  the  exclu- 
siveness  of  sects  rather  than  the  world-wide  hospitality  of 
genuine  religion.  I  had  imagined  a  cathedral  with  a  scope 
more  vast.  These  Gothic  aisles,  with  their  groined  arches 
overhead,  supported  by  clustered  pillars  in  long  vistas  up 
and  down,  were  venerable  and  magnificent,  but  included 
too  much  of  the  twilight  of  that  monkish  gloom  out  of 
which  they  grew.  It  is  no  matter  whether  I  ever  came 


LICHFIEuD  AXD  UTTOXETER.  149 

to  a  more  satisfactory  appreciation  of  this  kind  of  archi 
tecture  ;  the  only  value  of  ray  strictures  being  to  show 
the  folly  of  looking  at  noble  objects  in  the  wrong  mood, 
and  the  absurdity  of  a  new  visitant  pretending  to  hold 
any  opinion  whatever  oh  such  subjects,  instead  of  sur 
rendering  himself  to  the  old  builder's  influence  with 
•liildlike  simplicity. 

A  great  deal  of  white  marble  decorates  the  old  stone 
work  of  the  aisles,  in  the  shape  of  altars,  obelisks,  sar 
cophagi,  and  busts.  Most  of  these  memorials  are  com 
memorative  of  people  locally  distinguished,  especially  the 
deans  and  canons  of  the  cathedral,  with  their  relatives 
and  families ;  and  I  found  but  two  monuments  of  per 
sonages  whom  I  had  ever  heard  of,  —  one  being  Gilbert 
Walmesley,  and  the  other  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Mon 
tague,  a  literary  acquaintance  of  my  boyhood.  It  was 
really  pleasant  to  meet  her  there  ;  for  after  a  friend  has 
lain  in  the  grave  far  into  the  second  century,  she  would 
be  unreasonable  to  require  any  melancholy  emotions  in 
a  chance  interview  at  her  tombstone.  It  adds  a  rich 
charm  to  sacred  edifices,  this  time-honored  custom  of 
burial  in  churches,  after  a  few  years,  at  least,  when  the 
mortal  remains  have  turned  to  dust  beneath  the  pave 
ment,  and  the  quaint  devices  and  inscriptions  still  speak 
to  you  above.  The  statues,  that  stood  or  reclined  in 
several  recesses  of  the  Cathedral,  had  a  kind  of  life, 
and  I  regarded  them  with  an  odd  sort  of  deference,  as  if 
they  were  privileged  denizens  of  the  precinct.  It  was 
singular,  too,  how  the  memorial  of  the  latest  buried  per 
son,  the  man  whose  features  were  familiar  in  the  streets 
of  Lichfield  only  yesterday,  seemed  precisely  as  much  at 
home  here  as  his  mediaeval  predecessors.  Henceforward 


150  LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER. 

ho  belonged  to  the  cathedral  like  one  of  its  original  pillar? 
Methought  this  impression  in  ray  fancy  might  be  the 
shadow  of  a  spiritual  fact.  The  dying  melt  into  the 
great  multitude  of  the  Departed  as  quietly  as  a  drop  of 
water  into  the  ocean,  and,  it  may  be,  are  conscious  of  no 
unfamiliarity  with  their  new  circumstances,  but  immedi 
ately  become  aware  of  an  insufferable  strangeness  in  the 
world  which  they  have  quitted.  Death  has  not  taken 
them  away,  but  brought  them  home. 

The  vicissitudes  and  mischances  of  sublunary  affairs, 
however,  have  not  ceased  to  attend  upon  these  marble 
inhabitants;  for  I  saw  the  upper  fragment  of  a  sculp 
tured  lady,  in  a  very  old-fashioned  garb,  the  lower  half 
of  whom  had  doubtless  been  demolished  by  Cromwell's 
soldiers  when  they  took  the  Minster  by  storm.  And 
there  lies  the  remnant  of  this  devout  lady  on  her  slab, 
ever  since  the  outrage,  as  for  centuries  before,  with  a 
countenance  of  divine  serenity  and  her  hands  clasped  in 
prayer,  symbolizing  a  depth  of  religious  faith  which  no 
earthly  turmoil  or  calamity  could  disturb.  Another 
piece  of  sculpture  (apparently  a  favorite  subject  in  the 
middle  ages,  for  I  have  seen  several  like  it  in  other  Ca 
thedrals),  was  a  reclining  skeleton,  as  faithfully  repre 
senting  an  open-work  of  bones  as  could  well  be  ex 
pected  in  a  solid  block  of  marble,  and  at  a  period,  more 
over,  when  the  mysteries  of  the  human  frame  were 
rather  to  be  guessed  at  than  revealed.  Whatever  the 
anatomical  defects  of  his  production,  the  old  sculptor  had 
succeeded  in  making  it  ghastly  beyond  measure.  How 
much  mischief  has  been  wrought  upon  us  by  this  in 
variable  gloom  of  the  Gothic  imagination  ;  flinging  itself 
like  a  death-scented  pall  over  our  conceptions  of  the 


LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER.  151 

future  state,  smothering  our  hopes,  hiding  our  sky,  and 
inducing  dismal  efforts  to  raise  the  harvest  of  immor 
tality  out  of  what  is  most  opposite  to  it, — the  grave! 

The  Cathedral  service  is  performed  twice  every  day  : 
at  ten  o'clock  and  at  four.  When  I  first  entered,  the 
choristers  (young  and  old,  but  mostly,  I  think,  boys,  with 
voices  inexpressibly  sweet  and  clear,  and  as  fresh  as  bird- 
notes)  were  just  winding  up  their  harmonious  labors,  and 
soon  came  thronging  through  a  side-door  from  the  chan 
cel  into  the  nave.  They  were  all  dressed  in  long,  white 
robes,  and  looked  like  a  peculiar  order  of  beings,  created 
on  purpose  to  hover  between  the  roof  and  pavement  of 
that  dim,  consecrated  edifice,  and  illuminate  it  with 
divine  melodies,  reposing  themselves,  meanwhile,  on  the 
heavy  grandeur  of  the  organ-tones  like  cherubs  on  a 
golden  cloud.  All  at  once,  however,  one  of  the  cherubic 
multitude  pulled  off  his  white  gown,  thus  transforming 
himself  before  my  very  eyes  into  a  commonplace  youth 
of  the  day,  in  modern  frock-coat  and  trousers  of  a  de 
cidedly  provincial  cut.  This  absurd  little  incident,  I 
verily  believe,  had  a  sinister  effect  in  putting  me  at  odds 
with  the  proper  influences  of  the  Cathedral,  nor  could  I 
quite  recover  a  suitable  frame  of  mind  during  my  stay 
there.  But,  emerging  into  the  open  air,  I  began  to  be 
sensible  that  I  had  left  a  magnificent  interior  behind  me, 
and  I  have  never  quite  lost  the  perception  and  enjoyment 
of  it  in  these  intervening  years. 

A  large  space  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the 
Cathedral  is  called  the  Close,  and  comprises  beautifully 
kept  lawns  and  a  shadowy  walk,  bordered  by  the  dwell 
ings  of  the  ecclesiastical  dignitaries  of  the  diocese.  All 
this  row  of  episcopal,  canonical,  and  clerical  residences, 


152  LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER. 

has  an  air  of  the  deepest  quiet,  repose,  and  well-pro 
tected,  though  not  inaccessible  seclusion.  They  seemed 
capable  of  including  everything  that  a  saint  could  desire, 
and  a  great  many  more  things  than  most  of  us  sinners 
generally  succeed  in  acquiring.  Their  most  marked  fea 
ture  is  a  dignified  comfort,  looking  as  if  no  disturbance 
or  vulgar  intrusiveness  could  ever  cross  their  thresholds, 
encroach  upon  their  ornamented  lawns,  or  straggle  into 
me  beautiful  gardens  that  surround  them  with  flower- 
oeds  and  rich  clumps  of  shrubbery.  The  episcopal 
palace  is  a  stately  mansion  of  stone,  built  somewhat  in 
the  Italian  style,  and  bearing  on  its  front  the  figures 
1687,  as  the  date  of  its  erection.  A  large  edifice  of 
brick,  which,  if  I  remember,  stood  next  to  the  palace,  I 
took  to  be  the  residence  of  the  second  dignitary  of  the 
Cathedral ;  and,  in  that  case,  it  must  have  been  the 
youthful  home  of  Addison,  whose  father  was  Dean  of 
Lichfield.  I  tried  to  fancy  his  figure  on  the  delightful 
walk  that  extends  in  front  of  those  priestly  abodes,  from 
which  and  the  interior  lawns  it  is  separated  by  an  open 
work  iron  fence,  lined  with  rich  old  shrubbery,  and  over 
arched  by  a  minster-aisle  of  venerable  trtes.  This  path 
is  haunted  by  the  shades  of  famous  personages  who  have 
formerly  trodden  it.  Johnson  must  have  teen  familiar 
with  it,  both  as  a  boy,  and  in  his  subsequent  visits  to  Lich 
field,  an  illustrious  old  man.  Miss  Seward,  connected 
with  so  many  literary  reminiscences,  lived  in  one  of  the 
adjacent  houses.  Tradition  says  that  it  was  a  favorite 
spot  of  Major  Andre,  who  used  to  pace  to  and  fro  under 
these  trees,  waiting,  perhaps,  to  catch  a  last  angel-glimpse 
of  Honoria  Sneyd,  before  he  crossed  the  ocean  to  en 
counter  his  dismal  doom  from  an  American  court-martial 


LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER.  153 

David  Garrick,  no  doubt,  scampered  along  the  palh  in  his 
boyish  days,  and,  if  he  was  an  early  student  of  the 
drama,  must  often  have  thought  of  those  two  airy  char 
acters  of  the  "  Beaux'  Stratagem,"  Archer  and  Aimwell, 
who,  on  this  very  ground,  after  attending  service  at  tho 
Cathedral,  contrive  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  ladies 
of  the  comedy.  These  creatures  of  mere  fiction  have  a.* 
positive  a  substance  now  as  the  sturdy  old  figure  of  John 
son  himself.  They  live,  while  realities  have  died.  The 
shadowy  walk  still  glistens  with  their  gold-embroidered 
memories. 

Seeking  for  Johnson's  birthplace,  I  found  it  in  St. 
Mary's  Square,  which  is  not  so  much  a  square  as  the 
mere  widening  of  a  street.  The  house  is  tall  aad  thin, 
of  three  stories,  with  a  square  front  and  a  roof  rising 
steep  and  high.  On  a  side-view,  the  building  looks  as  if 
it  had  been  cut  in  two  in  the  midst,  there  being  no  slope 
of  the  roof  on  that  side.  A  ladder  slanted  against  the 
wall,  and  a  painter  was  giving  a  livelier  hue  to  the 
plaster.  In  a  corner-room  of  the  basement,  where  old 
Michael  Johnson  may  be  supposed  to  have  sold  books, 
is  now  what  we  should  call  a  dry-goods  store,  or,  accord 
ing  to  the  English  phrase,  a  mercer's  and  haberdasher's 
shop.  The  house  has  a  private  entrance  on  a  cross- 
street,  the  door  being  accessible  by  several  much  worn 
stone-steps,  which  are  bordered  by  an  iron  balustrade.  I 
set  my  foot  on  the  steps  and  laid  my  hand  on  the  balus 
trade,  where  Johnson's  hand  and  foot  must  many  a  time 
have  been,  and  ascending  to  the  door,  I  knocked  once, 
and  again,  and  again,  and  got  no  admittance.  Going 
round  to  the  shop-entrance,  I  tried  to  open  it,  but  found 
it  as  fast  bolted  as  the  gate  of  Paradise.  It  is  mortify- 


154  LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER. 

ing  to  be  so  balked  in  one's  little  enthusiasms ;  but  look 
ing  round  in  quest  of  somebody  to  make  inquiries  of,  1 
was  a  good  deal  consoled  by  the  sight  of  Dr.  Johnson 
himself,  who  happened,  just  at  that  moment,  to  be  sitting 
at  his  ease  nearly  in  the  middle  of  St.  Mary's  Square, 
with  his  face  turned  towards  his  father's  house. 

Of  course,  it  being  almost  fourscore  years  since  the 
doctor  laid  aside  his  weary  bulk  of  flesh,  together  with 
the  ponderous  melancholy  that  had  so  long  weighed  him 
down,  —  the  intelligent  reader  will  at  once  comprehend 
that  he  was  marble  in  his  substance,  and  seated  in  a 
marble  chair,  on  an  elevated  stone-pedestal.  In  short,  it 
was  a  statue,  sculptured  by  Lucas,  and  placed  here  in 
1838,  at  the  expense  of  Dr.  Law,  the  reverend  chancel 
lor  of  the  Diocese. 

The  figure  is  colossal  (though  perhaps  not  much  more 
so  than  the  mountainous  doctor  himself)  and  looks  down 
upon  the  spectator  from  its  pedestal  of  ten  or  twelve  feet 
high,  with  a  broad  and  heavy  benignity  of  aspect,  very 
like  in  feature  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  portrait  of  John 
son,  but  calmer  and  sweeter  in  expression.  Several  big 
books  are  piled  up  beneath  his  chair,  and,  if  I  mistake 
not,  he  holds  a  volume  in  his  hand,  thus  blinking  forth 
at  the  world  out  of  his  learned  abstraction,  owl-like,  yet 
benevolent  at  heart.  The  statue  is  immensely  massive, 

vast  ponderosity  of  stone,  not  finely  spiritualized,  nor, 
indeed,  fully  humanized,  but  rather  resembling  a  great 
gtone-boulder  than  a  man.  You  must  look  with  the  eyes 
of  faith  and  sympathy,  or  possibly,  you  might  lose  the 
human  being  altogether,  and  find  only  a  big  stone  within 
your  mental  grasp.  On  the  pedestal  are  three  bas-reliefs. 
In  the  first,  Johnson  is  represented  as  hardly  more  than 


LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER.  155 

a  baby,  bestriding  an  old  man's  shoulders,  resting  his 
chin  on  the  bald  head  which  he  embraces  with  his  little 
arms,  and  listening  earnestly  to  the  high-church  eloquence 
of  Dr.  Sacheverell.  In  the  second  tablet,  he  is  seen  rid 
ing  to  school  on  the  shoulders  of  two  of  his  comrades, 
while  another  boy  supports  him  in  the  rear. 

The  third  bas-relief  possesses,  to  my  mind,  a  great  deal 
of  pathos,  to  which  my  appreciative  faculty  is  probably 
the  more  alive,  because  I  have  always  been  profoundly 
impressed  by  the  incident  here  commemorated,  and  long 
ago  tried  to  tell  it  for  the  behoof  of  childish  readers.  It 
shows  Johnson  in  the  market-place  of  Uttoxeter,  doing 
penance  for  an  act  of  disobedience  to  his  father,  com 
mitted  fifty  years  before.  He  stands  bare-headed,  a 
venerable  figure,  and  a  countenance  extremely  sad  and 
woe-begone,  with  the  wind  and  rain  driving  hard  against 
him,  and  thus  helping  to  suggest  to  the  spectator  the 
gloom  of  his  inward  state.  Some  market-people  and 
children  gaze  awe-stricken  into  his  face,  and  an  aged 
man  and  woman,  with  clasped  and  uplifted  hands,  seem 
to  be  praying  for  him.  These  latter  personages  (whose 
introduction  by  the  artist  is  none  the  less  effective,  be 
cause,  in  queer  proximity,  there  are  some  commodities 
of  market-day  in  the  shape  of  living  ducks  and  dead 
poultry,)  I  interpreted  to  represent  the  spirits  of  John 
son's  father  and  mother,  lending  what  aid  they  could  t» 
lighten  his  half-century's  burden  of  remorse. 

I  had  never  heard  of  the  above-described  piece  of 
sculpture  before ;  it  appears  to  have  no  reputation  as  a 
work  of  art,  nor  am  I  at  all  positive  that  it  deserves  any. 
For  me,  however,  it  did  as  much  as  sculpture  could,  un 
der  the  circumstances,  even  if  the  artist  of  the  Libyan 


156  LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER. 

Sibyl  had  wrought  it,  by  reviving  my  interest  in  the 
sturdy  old  Englishman,  and  particularly  by  freshening 
my  perception  of  a  wonderful  beauty  and  pathetic  ten 
derness  in  the  incident  of  the  penance.  So,  the  next 
day,  I  left  Lichfield  for  Uttoxeter,  on  one  of  the  few 
purely  sentimental  pilgrimages  that  I  ever  undertook,  to 
see  the  very  spot  where  Johnson  had  stood.  Boswell,  I 
think,  speaks  of  the  town  (its  name  is  pronounced  Yute- 
oxeter)  as  being  about  nine  miles  off  from  Lichfield,  but 
the  county-map  would  indicate  a  greater  distance ;  and 
by  rail,  passing  from  one  line  to  another,  it  is  as  much 
as  eighteen  miles.  I  have  always  had  an  idea  of  old 
Michael  Johnson  sending  his  literary  merchandise  by 
carrier's  wagon,  journeying  to  Uttoxeter  a-foot  on  mar 
ket-day  morning,  selling  books  through  the  busy  hours, 
and  returning  to  Lichfield  at  night.  This  could  not  pos 
sibly  have  been  the  case. 

Arriving  at  the  Uttoxeter  station,  the  first  objects  that 
I  saw,  with  a  green  field  or  two  between  them  and  me, 
were  the  tower  and  gray  steeple  of  a  church,  rising 
among  red-tiled  roofs  and  a  few  scattered  trees.  A 
very  short  walk  takes  you  from  the  station  up  into  the 
town.  It  had  been  my  previous  impression  that  the 
market-place  of  Uttoxeter  lay  immediately  roundabout 
the  church;  and,  if  I  remember  the  narrative  aright, 
Johnson,  or  Boswell  in  his  behalf,  describes  his  father's 
book-stall  as  standing  in  the  market-place,  close  beside 
the  sacred  edifice.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  say  what 
changes  may  have  occurred  in  the  topography  of  the 
town,  during  almost  a  century  and  a  half  since  Michael 
Johnson  retired  from  business,  and  ninety  years,  at  least, 
since  his  son's  penance  was  performed.  But  the  church 


LICHF1ELD  AND  UTTOXETER.  157 

has  now  merely  a  street  of  ordinary  width  passing  around 
it,  while  the  market-place,  though  near  at  hand,  neither 
forms  a  part  of  it  nor  is  really  contiguous,  nor  would  its 
throng  and  bustle  be  apt  to  overflow  their  boundaries  and 
surge  against  the  churchyard  and  the  old  gray  tower. 
Nevertheless,  a  walk  of  a  minute  or  two  brings  a  person 
from  the  centre  of  the  market-place  to  the  church-door ; 
and  Michael  Johnson  might  very  conveniently  have 
located  his  stall  and  laid  out  his  literary  ware  in  the 
corner  at  the  tower's  base  ;  better  there,  indeed,  than  in 
the  busy  centre  of  an  agricultural  market.  But  the  pic 
turesque  arrangement  and  full  impressiveness  of  the  story 
absolutely  require  that  Johnson  shall  not  have  done  his 
penance  in  a  corner,  ever  so  little  retired,  but  shall  have 
been  the  very  nucleus  of  the  crowd  —  the  midmost  man 
of  the  market-place  —  a  central  image  of  Memory  and 
Remorse,  contrasting  with  and  overpowering  the  petty 
materialism  around  him.  He  himself,  having  the  force 
to  throw  vitality  and  truth  into  what  persons  differently 
constituted  might  reckon  a  mere  external  ceremony, 
and  an  absurd  one,  could  not  have  failed  to  see  this 
necessity.  I  am  resolved,  therefore,  that  the  true  site  of 
Dr.  Johnson's  penance  was  in  the  middle  of  the  market 
place. 

That  important  portion  of  the  town  is  a  rather  spacious 
and  irregularly  shaped  vacuity,  surrounded  by  houses 
and  shops,  some  of  them  old,  with  red-tiled  roofs,  others 
wearing  a  pretence  of  newness,  but  probably  as  old  in 
their  inner  substance  as  the  rest.  The  people  of  Uttox 
eter  seemed  very  idle  in  the  warm  summer-day,  and 
were  scattered  in  little  groups  along  the  side-walks, 
leisurely  chatting  with  one  another,  and  often  turning 


108  LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER. 

about  to  take  a  deliberate  stare  at  my  humble  self 
msomuch  that  I  felt  as  if  my  genuine  sympathy  for  the 
illustrious  penitent,  and  my  many  reflections  about  him, 
must  have  imbued  me  with  some  of  his  own  singularity 
of  mien.  If  their  great-grandfathers  were  such  redoubt 
able  starers  in  the  Doctor's  day,  his  penance  was  no  light 
one.  This  curiosity  indicates  a  paucity  of  visitors  to  tho 
little  town,  except  for  market  purposes,  and  I  question  if 
Uttoxeter  ever  saw  an  American  before.  The  only  other 
thing  that  greatly  impressed  me  was  the  abundance  of 
public-houses,  one  at  every  step  or  two:  Red  Lions, 
White  Harts,  Bulls'  Heads,  Mitres,  Cross  Keys,  and 
1  know  not  what  besides.  These  are  probably  for  the 
accommodation  of  the  farmers  and  peasantry  of  the 
neighborhood  on  market-day,  and  content  themselves 
with  a  very  meagre  business  on  other  days  of  the  week. 
At  any  rate,  I  was  the  only  guest  in  Uttoxeter  at  the 
period  of  my  visit,  and  had  but  an  infinitesimal  portion 
of  patronage  to  distribute  among  such  a  multitude  of 
inns.  The  reader,  however,  will  possibly  be  scandalized 
to  learn  what  was  the  first,  and,  indeed,  the  only  impor 
tant  affair  that  I  attended  to,  after  coming  so  far  to  indulge 
a  solemn  and  high  emotion,  and  standing  now  on  the 
very  spot  where  my  pious  errand  should  have  been 
consummated.  I  stepped  into  one  of  the  rustic  hostle- 
ries  and  got  my  dinner,  —  bacon  and  greens,  some  mutton- 
chops,  juicier  and  more  delectable  than  all  America  could 
serve  up  at  the  President's  table,  and  a  gooseberry  pud 
ding  :  a  sufficient  meal  for  six  yeomen,  and  good  enough 
for  a  prince,  besides  a  pitcher  of  foaming  ale,  the  whole 
at  the  pitiful  small  charge  of  eighteenpence ! 

Dr.  Johnson  would  have  forgiven  me,  for  nobody  had 


LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER.  159 

a  heartier  faith  in  beef  and  mutton  than  himself.  And 
as  regards  my  lack  of  sentiment  in  eating  my  dinner,  — 
it  was  the  wisest  thing  I  had  done  that  day.  A  sensible 
man  had  better  not  let  himself  be  betrayed  into  these 
attempts  to  realize  the  things  which  he  has  dreamed 
about,  and  which,  when  they  cease  to  be  purely  ideal  in 
his  mind,  will  have  lost  the  truest  of  their  truth,  the  lofti 
est  and  profoundest  part  of  their  power  over  his  sym 
pathies.  Facts,  as  we  really  find  them,  whatever  poetry 
they  may  involve,  are  covered  with  a  stony  excrescence 
of  prose,  resembling  the  crust  on  a  beautiful  sea-shell, 
and  they  never  show  their  most  delicate  and  divinest 
colors  until  we  shall  have  dissolved  away  their  grosser 
actualities  by  steeping  them  long  in  a  powerful  men 
struum  of  thought.  And  seeking  to  actualize  them 
again,  we  do  but  renew  the  crust.  If  this  were  other 
wise  —  if  the  moral  sublimity  of  a  great  fact  depended 
in  any  degree  on  its  garb  of  external  circumstances, 
things  which  change  and  decay  —  it  could  not  itself  be 
immortal  and  ubiquitous,  and  only  a  brief  point  of  time 
and  a  little  neighborhood  would  be  spiritually  nourished 
by  its  grandeur  and  beauty. 

Such  were  a  few  of  the  reflections  which  I  mingled 
with  my  ale,  as  I  remember  to  have  seen  an  old  quaffer 
of  that  excellent  liquor  stir  up  his  cup  with  a  sprig  of 
some  bitter  and  fragrant  herb.  Meanwhile  I  found  my 
self  still  haunted  by  a  desire  to  get  a  definite  result  out 
of  my  visit  to  Uttoxeter.  The  hospitable  inn  was  called 
the  Nag's  Head,  and  standing  beside  the  market-place, 
was  as  likely  as  any  other  to  have  entertained  old 
Michael  Johnson  in  the  days  when  he  used  to  come 
hither  to  sell  books.  He,  perhaps,  had  dined  on  bacon 


160  LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER. 

and  g7TPns,  and  drunk  his  ale,  and  smoked  his  pipe,  in 
the  very  room  where  I  now  sat,  which  was  a  low,  ancient 
room,  c^**tainly  much  older  than  Queen  "Anne's  time, 
with  a  red-brick  floor,  and  a  white-washed  ceiling,  trav 
ersed  by  bare,  rough  beams,  the  whole  in  the  rudest 
fashion,  but  extremely  neat.  Neither  did  it  lack  orna 
ment,  the  walls  being  hung  with  colored  engravings  of 
prize  oxen  and  other  pretty  prints,  and  the  mantel-piece 
adorned  with  earthenware  figures  of  shepherdesses  in  the 
Arcadian  taste  of  long  ago.  Michael  Johnson's  eyes 
might  have  rested  on  that  self-same  earthen  image,  to  ex 
amine  which  more  closely  I  had  just  crossed  the  brick 
pavement  of  the  room.  And,  sitting  down  again,  still  as 
I  sipped  my  ale,  I  glanced  through  the  open  window  into 
the  sunny  market-place,  and  wished  that  I  could  hon 
estly  fix  on  one  spot  rather  than  another,  as  likely  to 
have  been  the  holy  site  where  Johnson  stood  to  do  his 
penance. 

How  strange  and  stupid  it  is  that  tradition  should  not 
have  marked  and  kept  in  mind  the  very  place  !  How 
shameful  (nothing  less  than  that)  that  there  should  be  no 
local  memorial  of  this  incident,  as  beautiful  and  touchmg 
a  passage  as  can  be  cited  out  of  any  human  life  !  No 
inscription  of  it,  almost  as  sacred  as  a  verse  of  Scripture 
on  the  wall  of  the  church !  No  statue  of  the  venerable 
and  illustrious  penitent  in  the  market-place  to  throw  a 
wholesome  awe  over  its  earthliness,  its  frauds  and  petty 
wrongs  of  which  the  benumbed  fingers  of  conscience  can 
make  no  record,  its  selfish  competition  of  each  man  with 
his  brother  or  his  neighbor,  its  traffic  of  soul-substance 
for  a  little  worldly  gain  !  Such  a  statue,  if  the  piety  of 
the  people  did  not  rai*e  H,  nuVh*  almost  have  been  ex- 


LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER.  161 

pected  to  grow  up  out  of  the  pavement  of  its  own  accord 
on  the  spot  that  had  been  watered  by  the  rain  that 
dripped  from  Johnson's  garments,  mingled  with  his  re 
morseful  tears. 

Long  after  my  visit  to  Uttoxeter,  I  was  told  that  there 
were  individuals  in  the  town  who  could  have  shown  me 
the  exact,  indubitable  spot  where  Johnson  performed  his 
penance.  I  was  assured,  moreover,  that  sufficient  inter 
est  was  felt  in  the  subject  to  have  induced  certain  local 
discussions  as  to  the  expediency  of  erecting  a  memorial. 
With  all  deference  to  my  polite  informant,  I  surmise  that 
there  is  a  mistake,  and  decline,  without  further  and  pre 
cise  evidence,  giving  credit  to  either  of  the  above  state 
ments.  The  inhabitants  know  nothing,  as  a  matter  of 
general  interest,  about  the  penance,  and  care  nothing  for 
the  scene  of  it.  If  the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  for  ex 
ample,  had  ever  heard  of  it,  would  he  not  have  used  the 
theme,  time  and  again,  wherewith  to  work  tenderly  and 
profoundly  on  the  souls  committed  to  his  charge  ?  -  If 
parents  were  familiar  with  it,  would  they  not  teach  it  to 
their  young  ones  at  the  fireside,  both  to  insure  reverence 
to  their  own  gray  hairs,  and  to  protect  the  children  from 
such  unavailing  regrets  as  Johnson  bore  upon  his  heart 
for  fifty  years  ?  If  the  site  were  ascertained,  would  not 
the  pavement  thereabouts  be  worn  with  reverential  foot 
steps  ?  Would  not  every  town-born  child  be  able  to 
direct  the  pilgrim  thither?  While  waiting  at  the  sta 
tion,  before  my  departure,  I  asked  a  boy  who  stood  near 
me,  —  an  intelligent  and  gentlemanly  lad,  twelve  or  thir 
teen  years  old,  whom  I  should  take  to  be  a  clergyman's 
son.  —  I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  heard  the  story  of 
T>r.  Johnson,  how  he  stood  an  hour  doing  penance  near 
11 


162  LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER. 

that  church,  the  spire  of  which  rose  before  us.  The  boy 
stared  and  answered,  — 

«No!" 

"  Were  you  bora  in  Uttoxeter  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

I  inquired  if  no  circumstance  such  as  I  had  mentioned 
was  known  or  talked  about  among  the  inhabitants. 

"  No,"  said  the  boy ;  "  not  that  I  ever  heard  of." 

Just  think  of  the  absurd  little  town,  knowing  nothing 
of  the  only  memorable  incident  which  ever  happened 
within  its  boundaries  since  the  old  Britons  built  it,  this 
Bad  and  lovely  story,  which  consecrates  the  spot  (for  I 
found  it  holy  to  my  contemplation,  again,  as  soon  as  it  lay 
behind  me)  in  the  heart  of  a  stranger  from  three  thou 
sand  miles  over  the  sea !  It  but  confirms  what  I  have 
been  saying,  that  sublime  and  beautiful  facts  are  best  un 
derstood  when  ethereplvwl  by 


PILGRIMAGE   TO  OLD    BOSTON. 

WE  set  out  at  a  little  past  eleven,  and  made  our  first 
Btage  to  Manchester.  We  were  by  this  time  sufficiently 
Anglicized  to  reckon  the  morning  a  bright  and  sunny 
one  ;  although  the  May  sunshine  was  mingled  with  water, 
as  it  were,  and  distempered  with  a  very  bitter  east  wind. 

Lancashire  is  a  dreary  county,  (all,  at  least,  except  its 
liilly  portions,)  and  I  have  never  passed  through  it  with 
out  wishing  myself  anywhere  but  in  that  particular  spot 
where  1  then  happened  to  be.  A  few  places  along  our 
route  were  historically  interesting ;  as,  for  example,  Bol- 
ton,  wliich  was  the  scene  of  many  remarkable  events  in 
the  Parliamentary  War,  and  in  the  market-square  of 
which  one  of  the  Earls  of  Derby  was  beheaded.  We 
saw,  along  the  wayside,  the  never-failing  green  fields, 
hedges,  and  other  monotonous  features  of  an  ordinary 
English  landscape.  There  were  little  factory  villages, 
too,  or  larger  towns,  with  their  tall  chimneys,  and  their 
pennons  of  black  smoke,  their  ugliness  of  brick-work, 
and  their  heaps  of  refuse  matter  from  the  furnace,  whicl 
seems  to  be  the  only  kind  of  stuff  which  Nature  cannot 
take  back  to  herself  and  resolve  into  the  elements,  when 
man  has  thrown  it  aside.  These  hillocks  of  waste  and 
effete  mineral  always  disfigure  the  neighborhood  of  iron 
mongering  towns,  and,  even  after  a  considerable  antiquity, 
are  hardly  made  decent  with  a  little  grass. 


164  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

At  a  quarter  to  two  we  left  Manchester  by  the  Shef 
field  and  Lincoln  Railway.  The  scenery  grew  rather 
better  than  that  through  which  we  had  hitherto  passed, 
though  still  by  no  means  very  striking;  for  (except  in 
the  show-districts,  such  as  the  Lake  country,  or  Derby 
shire)  English  scenery  is  not  particularly  well  worth 

ooking  at,  considered  as  a  spectacle  or  a  picture.  It  has 
a  real,  homely  charm  of  its  own,  no  doubt ;  and  the  rich 
verdure,  and  the  thorough  finish  added  by  human  art,  are 
perhaps  as  attractive  to  an  American  eye  as  any  stronger 
feature  could  be.  Our  journey,  however,  between  Man 
chester  and  Sheffield  was  not  through  a  rich  tract  of 
country,  but  along  a  valley  walled  in  by  bleak,  ridgy  hills 
extending  straight  as  a  rampart,  and  across  black  moor 
lands  with  here  and  there  a  plantation  of  trees.  Some 
times  there  were  long  and  gradual  ascents,  bleak,  windy, 
and  desolate,  conveying  the  very  impression  which  the 
reader  gets  from  many  passages  of  Miss  Bronte's  novels, 
and  still  more  from  those  of  her  two  sisters.  Old  stone 
or  brick  farm-houses,  and,  once  in  a  while,  an  old  church- 
tower,  were  visible:  but  these  are  almost  too  common 
objects  to  be  noticed  in  an  English  landscape. 

On  a  railway,  I  suspect,  what  little  we  do  see  of  the 
country  is  seen  quite  amiss,  because  it  was  never  intended 
to  be  looked  at  from  any  point  of  view  in  that  straight 

ine ;  so  that  it  is  like  looking  at  the  wrong  side  of  a  piece 
of  tapestry.  The  old  highways  and  footpaths  were  as 
natural  as  brooks  and  rivulets,  and  adapted  themselves 
by  an  inevitable  impulse  to  the  physiognomy  of  the 
country ;  and,  furthermore,  every  object  within  view  of 
them  had  some  subtile  reference  to  their  curves  and  un 
dulations  :  but  the  line  of  a  railway  is  perfectly  artificial, 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  165 

and  puts  all  precedent  things  at  sixes-and-sevens.  At 
any  rate,  be  the  cause  what  it  may,  there  is  seldom  any 
thing  worth  seeing  within  the  scope  of  a  railway  travel 
ler's  eye  ;  and  if  there  were,  it  requires  an  alert  marks 
man  to  take  a  flying  shot  at  the  picturesque. 

At  one  of  the  stations  (it  was  near  a  village  of  ancient 
aspect,  nestling  round  a  church,  on  a  wide  Yorkshire 
moor)  I  saw  a  tall  old  lady  in  black,  who  seemed  to 
have  just  alighted  from  the  train.  She  caught  my  atten 
tion  by  a  singular  movement  of  the  head,  not  once  only, 
but  continually  repeated,  and  at  regular  intervals,  as  if 
she  were  making  a  stern  and  solemn  protest  against  some 
action  that  developed  itself  before  her  eyes,  and  were 
foreboding  terrible  disaster,  if  it  should  be  persisted  in. 
Of  course,  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  paralytic  or  ner 
vous  affection  ;  yet  one  might  fancy  that  it  had  its  origin  in 
some  unspeakable  wrong,  perpetrated  half  a  lifetime  ago 
in  this  old  gentlewoman's  presence,  either  against  herself 
or  somebody  whom  she  loved  still  better.  Her  features 
had  a  wonderful  sternness,  which,  I  presume,  was  caused 
by  her  habitual  effort  to  compose  and  keep  them  quiet, 
and  thereby  counteract  the  tendency  to  paralytic  move 
ment.  The  slow,  regular,  and  inexorable  character  of 
the  motion  —  her  look  of  force  and  self-control,  which 
had  the  appearance  of  rendering  it  voluntary,  while  yet 
it  was  so  fateful  —  have  stamped  this  poor  lady's  face 
and  gesture  into  my  memory;  so  that,  some  dark  day  or 
other,  I  am  afraid  she  will  reproduce  herself  in  a  dis 
mal  romance. 

The  train  stopped  a  minute  or  two,  to  allow  the  tickets 
to  be  taken,  just  before  entering  the  Sheffield  station, 
and  thence  I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  famous  town  of  razors 


106  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

and  penknives,  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  its  own  diffusing 
My  impressions  of  it  are  extremely  vague  and  misty,  — 
or,  rather,  smoky:  for  Sheffield  seems  to  me  smokier 
than  Manchester,  Liverpool,  or  Birmingham,  —  smokier 
than  all  England  besides,  unless  Newcastle  be  the  ex 
ception.  It  might  have  been  Pluto's  own  metropolis, 
shrouded  in  sulphurous  vapor;  and,  indeed,  our  approach 
to  it  had  been  by  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, 
through  a  tunnel  three  miles  in  length,  quite  traversing 
the  breadth  and  depth  of  a  mountainous  hill. 

After  passing  Sheffield,  the  scenery  became  softer, 
gentler,  yet  more  picturesque.  At  one  point  we  saw 
what  I  believe  to  be  the  utmost  northern  verge  of  Sher 
wood  Forest, —  not  consisting,  however,  of  thousand- 
year  oaks,  extant  from  Robin  Hood's  days,  but  of  young 
and  thriving  plantations,  which  will  require  a  century  or 
two  of  slow  English  growth  to  give  them  much  breadth 
of  shade.  Earl  Fitzwilliam's  property  lies  in  this  neigh 
borhood,  and  probably  his  castle  was  hidden  among  some 
soft  depth  of  foliage  not  far  off.  Farther  onward  the 
country  grew  quite  level  around  us,  whereby  I  judged 
that  we  must  now  be  in  Lincolnshire ;  and  shortly  after 
six  o'clock  we  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  the  Cathedral 
towers,  though  they  loomed  scarcely  huge  enough  for 
our  preconceived  idea  of  them.  But,  as  we  drew  nearer, 
the  great  edifice  began  to  assert  itself,  making  us  ac 
knowledge  it  to  be  larger  than  our  receptivity  could 
take  in. 

At  the  railway-station  we  found  no  cab,  (it  being  an 
unknown  vehicle  in  Lincoln,)  but  only  an  omnibus  be 
longing  to  the  Saracen's  Head,  which  the  driver  recom 
mended  as  the  best  hotel  in  the  city,  and  took  us  thither 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  167 

accordingly,  Tt  received  us  hospitably,  and  looked  com« 
fortable  enough ;  though,  like  the  hotels  of  most  old  Eng 
lish  towns,  it  had  a  musty  fragrance  of  antiquity,  such  as 
I  have  smelt  in  a  seldom-opened  London  church  where 
the  broad-aisle  is  paved  with  tombstones.  The  house 
was  of  an  ancient  fashion,  the  entrance  into  its  interior 
court-yard  being  through  an  arch,  in  the  side  of  which  ia 
the  door  of  the  hotel.  There  are  long  corridors,  an  in 
tricate  arrangement  of  passages,  and  an  up-and-down 
meandering  of  staircases,  amid  which  it  would  be  no 
marvel  to  encounter  some  forgotten  guest  who  had  g<  no 
astray  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  was  still  seeking  for  his 
bedroom  while  the  rest  of  his  generation  were  in  their 
graves.  There  is  no  exaggerating  the  confusion  of  mhid 
that  seizes  upon  a  stranger  in  the  bewildering  geography 
of  a  great  old-fashioned  English  inn. 

This  hotel  stands  in  the  principal  street  of  Lincoln, 
and  within  a  very  short  distance  of  one  of  the  ancient 
city-gates,  which  is  arched  across  the  public  way,  with  a 
smaller  arch  for  foot-passengers  on  either  side ;  the 
whole,  a  gray,  time-gnawn,  ponderous,  shadowy  struc 
ture,  through  the  dark  vista  of  which  you  look  into 
the  Middle  Ages.  The  street  is  narrow,  and  retains 
many  antique  peculiarities ;  though,  unquestionably,  Eng 
lish  domestic  architecture  has  lost  its  most  impressive 
features,  in  the  course  of  the  last  century.  In  this  re 
spect,  there  are  finer  old  towns  than  Lincoln :  Chester, 
for  instance,  and  Shrewsbury,  —  which  last  is  unusually 
rich  in  those  quaint  and  stately  edifices  where  the  gentry 
of  the  shire  used  to  make  their  winter-abodes,  in  a  pro 
vincial  metropolis.  Almost  everywhere,  nowadays,  there 
is  a  monotony  of  modern  brick  01  stuccoed  fronts,  hid 


108  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

ing  houses  that  are  older  than  ever,  but  obliterating  the 
picturesque  antiquity  of  the  street. 

Between  seven  and  eight  o'clock  (it  being  still  broad 
daylight  in  these  long  English  days)  we  set  out  to  pay  a 
preliminary  visit  to  the  exterior  of  the  Cathedral.  Pass 
ing  through  the  Stone  Bow,  as  the  city-gate  close  by  is 
called,  we  ascended  a  street  which  grew  steeper  and  nar 
rower  as  we  advanced,  till  at  last  it  got  to  be  the  steepest 
street  I  ever  climbed,  —  so  steep  that  any  carriage,  if  left 
to  itself,  would  rattle  downward  much  faster  than  it  could 
possibly  be  drawn  up.  Being  almost  the  only  hill  in  Lin 
colnshire,  th<3  inhabitants  seem  disposed  to  make  the  most 
of  it.  The  houses  on  each  side  had  no  very  remarkable 
aspect,  except  one  with  a  stone  portal  and  carved  orna 
ments,  which  is  now  a  dwelling-place  for  poverty  stricken 
people,  but  may  have  been  an  aristocratic  abode  in  the 
days  of  the  Norman  kings,  to  whom  its  style  of  architec 
ture  dates  back.  This  is  called  the  Jewess's  House,  hav 
ing  been  inhabited  by  a  woman  of  that  faith  who  was 
hanged  six  hundred  years  ago. 

And  still  the  street  grew  steeper  and  steeper.  Cer 
tainly,  the  Bishop  and  clergy  of  Lincoln  ought  not  to  be 
fat  men,  but  of  very  spiritual,  saint-like,  almost  angelic 
habit,  if  it  be  a  frequent  part  of  their  ecclesiastical  duty 
to  climb  this  hill ;  for  it  is  a  real  penance,  and  was  prob 
ably  performed  as  such,  and  groaned  over  accordingly,  ir 
monkish  times.  Formerly,  on  the  day  of  his  installation 
the  Bishop  used  to  ascend  the  hill  barefoot,  and  was 
doubtless  cheered  and  invigorated  by  looking  upward  to 
the  grandeur  that  was  to  console  him  for  the  humility  of 
his  approach.  We,  likewise,  were  beckoned  onward  by 
glimpses  of  the  Cathedral  towers,  and,  finally,  attaining 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  169 

an  open  square  on  the  summit,  we  saw  an  old  Gothic 
gateway  to  the  left  hand,  and  another  to  the  right.  Tho 
latter  had  apparently  been  a  part  of  the  exterior  defences 
of  the  Cathedral,  at  a  time  when  the  edifice  was  fortified 
The  west  front  rose  behind.  We  passed  through  one  oi 
the  side-arches  of  the  Gothic  portal,  and  found  ourselves 
in  the  Cathedral  Close,  a  wide,  level  space,  where  the 
great  old  Minster  has  fair  room  to  sit,  looking  down  on 
the  ancient  structures  that  surround  it,  all  of  which,  in 
former  days,  were  the  habitations  of  its  dignitaries  and 
officers.  Some  of  them  are  still  occupied  as  such,  though 
others  are  in  too  neglected  and  dilapidated  a  state  to  seem 
worthy  of  so  splendid  an  establishment.  Unless  it  bo 
Salisbury  Close,  however,  (which  is  incomparably  rich 
as  regards  the  old  residences  that  belong  to  it,)  I  remem 
ber  no  more  comfortably  picturesque  precincts  round  any 
other  cathedral.  But,  in  truth,  almost  every  cathedral 
close,  in  turn,  has  seemed  to  ine  the  loveliest,  cosiest, 
safest,  least  wind-shaken,  most  decorous,  and  most  en 
joyable  shelter  that  ever  the  thrift  and  selfishness  of 
mortal  man  contrived  for  himself.  How  delightful,  ta 
combine  all  this  with  the  service  of  the  temple  ! 

Lincoln  Cathedral  is  built  of  a  yellowish  brown-stone, 
which  appears  either  to  have  been  largely  restored,  or 
else  does  not  assume  the  hoary,  crumbly  surface  that 
gives  such  a  venerable  aspect  to  most  of  the  ancient 
churches  and  castles  in  England.  In  many  parts,  the 
recent  restorations  are  quite  evident;  but  other,  and 
much  the  larger  portions,  can  scarcely  have  been  touched 
for  centuries  :  for  there  are  still  the  gargoyles,  perfect,  or 
with  broken  noses,  as  the  case  may  be,  but  showing  that 
variety  and  fertility  of  grotesque  extravagance  which  no 


170  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

modern  imitation  can  effect.  There  are  innumerable 
niches,  too,  up  the  whole  height  of  the  towers,  above  and 
around  the  entrance,  and  all  over  the  walls :  most  of 
them  empty,  but  a  few  containing  the  lamentable  rem 
nants  of  headless  saints  and  angels.  It  is  singular  what 
a  native  animosity  lives  in  the  human  heart  against 
carved  images,  insomuch  that,  whether  they  represent 
Christian  saint  or  Pagan  deity,  all  unsophisticated  men 
seize  the  first  safe  opportunity  to  knock  off  their  heads  ! 
Jn  spite  of  all  dilapidations,  however,  the  effect  of  the 
west  front  of  the  Cathedral  is  still  exceedingly  rich,  be 
ing  covered  from  massive  base  to  airy  summit  with  the 
minutest  details  of  sculpture  and  carving :  at  least,  it 
was  so  once ;  and  even  now  the  spiritual  impression  of 
its  beauty  remains  so  strong,  that  we  have  to  look  twice 
to  see  that  much  of  it  has  been  obliterated.  I  have  seen 
a  cherry-stone  carved  all  over  by  a  monk,  so  minutely 
that  it  must  have  cost  him  half  a  lifetime  of  labor ;  and 
this  cathedral  front  seems  to  have  been  elaborated  in 
a  monkish  spirit,  like  that  cherry-stone.  Not  that  the  re 
sult  is  in  the  least  petty,  but  miraculously  grand,  and  all 
the  more  so  for  the  faithful  beauty  of  the  smallest  de 
tails. 

An  elderly  man,  seeing  us  looking  up  at  the  west  front, 
came  to  the  door  of  an  adjacent  house,  and  called  to  in 
quire  if  we  wished  to  go  into  the  Cathedral ;  but  as 
(here  would  have  been  a  dusky  twilight  beneath  its  roof, 
like  the  antiquity  that  has  sheltered  itself  within,  we  de 
clined  for  the  present.  So  we  merely  walked  round  the 
exterior,  and  thought  it  more  beautiful  than  that  of 
York ;  though,  on  recollection,  I  hardly  deem  it  so  majes 
tic  and  mighty  as  that.  It  is  vain  to  attempt  a  descrip- 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  171 

tion,  3r  seek  even  to  record  the  feeling  which  the  edifice 
inspires.  It  does  not  impress  the  beholder  as  an  inani 
mate  object,  but  as  something  that  has  a  vast,  quiet, 
long-enduring  life  of  its  own,  —  a  creation  which  man 
did  not  build,  though  in  some  way  or  other  it  is  con 
nected  with  him,  and  kindred  to  human  nature.  In  short, 
I  fall  straightway  to  talking  nonsense,  when  I  try  to  ex 
press  my  inner  sense  of  this  and  other  cathedrals. 

While  we  stood  in  the  close,  at  the  eastern  end  of  the 
Minster,  the  clock  chimed  the  quarters  ;  and  then  Great 
Tom,  who  hangs  in  the  Rood  Tower,  told  us  it  was  eight 
o'clock,  in  far  the  sweetest  and  mightiest  accents  that  I 
ever  heard  from  any  bell,  —  slow,  and  solemn,  and  allow 
ing  the  profound  reverberations  of  each  stroke  to  die 
away  before  the  next  one  fell.  It  was  still  broad  day 
light  in  that  upper  region  of  the  town,  and  would  be  so 
for  some  time  longer  ;  but  the  •  evening  atmosphere  was 
getting  sharp  and  cool.  We  therefore  descended  the 
steep  street,  —  our  younger  companion  running  before  us, 
and  gathering  such  headway  that  I  fully  expected  him  to 
break  his  head  against  some  projecting  wall. 

In  the  morning  we  took  a  fly,  (an  English  term  for  an 
exceedingly  sluggish  vehicle,)  and  drove  up  to  the  Min 
ster  by  a  road  rather  less  steep  and  abrupt  than  the  one 
we  had  previously  climbed.  We  alighted  before  the  west 
front,  and  sent  our  charioteer  in  quest  of  the  verger ;  but, 
as  he  was  not  immediately  to  be  found,  a  young  girl  let 
us  into  the  nave.  We  found  it  very  grand,  it  is  needless 
to  say,  but  not  so  grand,  methought,  as  the  vast  nave  of 
York  Cathedral,  especially  beneath  the  great  central 
tower  of  the  latter.  Unless  a  writer  intends  a  profess 
edly  architectural  description,  there  is  but  one  set  of 


172  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

phrases  in  which  to  talk  of  all  the  cathedrals  in  "England 
and  elsewhere.  They  are  alike  in  their  great  features 
an  acre  or  two  of  stone  flags  for  a  pavement ;  rows  of 
vast  columns  supporting  a  vaulted  roof  at  a  dusky  height ; 
great  windows,  sometimes  richly  bedimmed  with  ancient 
or  modern  stained  glass  ;  and  an  elaborately  carved  screen 
between  the  nave  and  chancel,  breaking  the  vista  that 
might  else  be  of  such  glorious  length,  and  which  is  fur 
ther  choked  up  by  a  massive  organ,  —  in  spite  of  which 
obstructions,  you  catch  the  broad,  variegated  glimmer  of 
the  painted  east  window,  where  a  hundred  saints  wear 
their  robes  of  transfiguration.  Behind  the  screen  are  the 
carved  oaken  stalls  of  the  Chapter  and  Prebendaries,  the 
Bishop's  throne,  the  pulpit,  the  altar,  and  whatever  else 
may  furnish  out  the  Holy  of  Holies.  Nor  must  we  for 
get  the  range  of  chapels,  (once  dedicated  to  Catholic 
saints,  but  which  have  now  lost  their  individual  consecra 
tion,)  nor  the  old  monuments  of  kings,  warriors,  and  prel 
ates,  in  the  side-aisles  of  the  chancel.  In  close  conti 
guity  to  the  main  body  of  the  Cathedral  is  the  Chapter- 
House,  which,  here  at  Lincoln,  as  at  Salisbury,  is  sup 
ported  by  one  central  pillar  rising  from  the  floor,  and 
putting  forth  branches  like  a  tree,  to  hold  up  the  roof. 
Adjacent  to  the  Chapter-House  are  the  cloisters,  extend 
ing  round  a  quadrangle,  and  paved  with  lettered  tomb 
stones,  the  more  antique  of  which  have  had  their  inscrip 
tions  half  obliterated  by  the  feet  of  monks  taking  their 
noontide  exercise  in  these  sheltered  walks,  five  hundred 
years  ago.  Some  of  these  old  burial-stones,  although 
with  ancient  crosses  engraved  upon  them,  have  been 
made  to  serve  as  memorials  to  dead  people  of  very  recent 
date. 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  173 

111  the  chancel,  among  the  tombs  of  forgotten  bishops 
and  knights,  we  saw  an  immense  slab  of  stone  purporting 
to  be  the  monument  of  Catherine  Swineferd,  wife  of  John 
of  Gaunt ;  also,  here  was  the  shrine  of  the  little  Saint 
Hugh,  that  Christian  child  who  was  fabled  to  have  been 
crucified  by  the  Jews  of  Lincoln.  The  Cathedral  is  not 
particularly  rich  in  monuments  ;  for  it  suffered  grievous 
outrage  and  dilapidation,  both  at  the  Reformation  and  in 
Cromwell's  time.  This  latter  iconoclast  is  in  especially 
bad  odor  with  the  sextons  and  vergers  of  most  of  the  old 
churches  which  I  have  visited.  His  soldiers  stabled  their 
steeds  in  the  nave  of  Lincoln  Cathedral,  and  hacked  and 
hewed  the  monkish  sculptures,  and  the  ancestral  me 
morials  of  great  families,  quite  at  their  wicked  and  ple 
beian  pleasure.  Nevertheless,  there  are  some  most  ex 
quisite  and  marvellous  specimens  of  flowers,  foliage,  anil 
grape-vines,  and  miracles  of  stone-work  twined  about 
arches,  as  if  the  material  had  been  as  soft  as  wax  in  the 
cunning  sculptor's  hands,  —  the  leaves  being  represented 
with  all  their  veins,  so  that  you  would  almost  think  it 
petrified  Nature,  for  which  he  sought  to  steal  the  praise 
of  Art.  Here,  too,  were  those  grotesque  faces  which  al 
ways  grin  at  you  from  the  projections  of  monkish  archi 
tecture,  as  if  the  builders  had  gone  mad  with  their  own 
deep  solemnity,  or  dreaded  such  a  catastrophe,  unless  per 
mitted  to  throw  in  something  ineffably  absurd. 

Originally,  it  is  supposed,  all  the  pillars  of  this  great 
edifice,  and  all  these  magic  sculptures,  were  polished  to 
the  utmost  degree  of  lustre  ;  nor  is  it  unreasonable  to 
think  that  the  artists  would  have  taken  these  further 
pains,  when  they  had  already  bestowed  so  much  labor  in 
working  out  their  conceptions  to  the  extremest  point. 


174  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

But,  at  present,  the  whole  interior  of  the  Cathedral  is 
smeared  over  with  a  yellowish  wash,  the  very  meanest 
hue  imaginable,  and  for  which  somebody's  soul  has  a 
bitter  reckoning  to  undergo. 

In  the  centre  of  the  grassy  quadrangle  about  which  the 
rloisters  perambulate  is  a  small,  mean,  brick  building, 
with  a  locked  door.  Our  guide,  —  I  forgot  to  say  that 
we  had  been  captured  by  a  verger,  in  black,  and  with  a 
white  tie,  but  of  a  lusty  and  jolly  aspect,  —  our  guide 
unlocked  this  door,  and  disclosed  a  flight  of  steps.  At 
the  bottom  appeared  what  I  should  have  taken  to  be  a 
large  square  of  dim,  worn,  and  faded  oil-carpeting,  which 
might  originally  have  been  painted  of  a  rather  gaudy 
pattern.  This  was  a  Roman  tessellated  pavement,  made 
of  small  colored  bricks,  or  pieces  of  burnt  clay.  It  was 
accidentally  discovered  here,  and  has  not  been  med 
dled  with,  further  than  by  removing  the  superincumbent 
earth  and  rubbish. 

Nothing  else  occurs  to  me,  just  now,  to  be  recorded 
about  the  interior  of  the  Cathedral,  except  that  we  saw 
a  place  where  the  stone  pavement  had  been  worn  away 
by  the  feet  of  ancient  pilgrims  scraping  upon  it,  as  they 
knelt  down  before  a  shrine  of  the  Virgin. 

Leaving  the  Minster,  we  now  went  along  a  street  of 
more  venerable  appearance  than  we  had  heretofore  seen, 
bordered  with  houses,  the  high,  peaked  roofs  of  which 
were  covered  with  red  earthen  tiles.  It  led  us  to  a  Ro 
man  arch,  which  was  once  the  gateway  of  a  fortification, 
and  has  been  striding  across  the  English  street  ever  since 
the  latter  was  a  faint  village-path,  and  for  centuries  be 
fore.  The  arch  is  about  four  hundred  yards  from  the 
Cathedral ;  and  it  is  to  be  noticed  that  there  are  Roman 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  175 

remains  in  all  this  neighborhood,  some  above  ground, 
and  doubtless  innumerable  more  beneath  it ;  for,  as  in 
ancient  Rome  itself,  an  inundation  of  accumulated  soil 
seems  to  have  swept  over  what  was  the  surface  of  that 
earlier  day.  The  gateway  which  I  am  speaking  about  is 
probably  buried  to  a  third  of  its  height,  and  perhaps  has 
as  perfect  a  Roman  pavement  (if  sought  for  at  the  origi 
nal  depth)  as  that  which  runs  beneath  the  Arch  of  Titus. 
It  is  a  rude  and  massive  structure,  and  seems  as  stalwart 
now  as  it  could  have  been  two  thousand  years  ago  ;  and 
though  Tim«j  has  gnawed  it  externally,  he  has  made  what 
amends  he  could  by  crowning  its  rough  and  broken  sum 
mit  with  grass  and  weeds,  and  planting  tufts  of  yellow 
flowers  on  the  projections  up  and  down  the  sides. 

There  are  the  ruins  of  a  Norman  castle,  built  by  the 
Conqueror,  in  pretty  close  proximity  to  the  Cathedral ; 
but  the  old  gateway  is  obstructed  by  a  modern  door  of 
wood,  and  we  were  denied  admittance  because  some  part 
of  the  precincts  are  used  as  a  prison.  We  now  rambled 
about  on  the  broad  back  of  the  hill,  which,  besides  the 
Minster  and  ruined  castle,  is  the  site  of  some  stately  and 
queer  old  houses,  and  of  many  mean  little  hovels.  I  sus 
pect  that  all  or  most  of  the  life  of  the  present  day  has 
subsided  into  the  lower  town,  and  that  only  priests,  poor 
people,  and  prisoners  dwell  in  these  upper  regions.  In 
the  wide,  dry  moat  at  the  base  of  the  castle-Tvall  are 
clustered  whole  colonies  of  small  houses,  some  of  brick, 
Out  the  larger  portion  built  of  old  stones  which  once 
made  part  of  the  Norman  keep,  or  of  Roman  structures 
that  existed  before  the  Conqueror's  castle  was  ever 
dreamed  about.  They  are  like  toadstools  that  spring  up 
irom  the  mould  of  a  decaying  tree.  Ugly  as  they  are. 


176  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

they  add  wonderfully  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  scene 
being  quite  as  valuable,  in  that  respect,  as  the  great, 
broad,  ponderous  ruin  of  the  castle-keep,  which  rose  high 
above  our  heads,  heaving  its  huge  gray  mass  out  of  a 
bank  of  green  foliage  and  ornamental  shrubbery,  such  as 
lilacs  and  other  flowering  plants,  in  which  its  foundations 
were  completely  hidden. 

After  walking  quite  round  the  castle,  I  made  an  ex 
cursion  through  the  Roman  gateway,  along  a  pleasant 
and  level  road  bordered  with  dwellings  of  various  char 
acter.  One  or  two  were  houses  of  gentility,  with  de 
lightful  and  shadowy  lawns  before  them;  many  had  those 
high,  red-tiled  roofs,  ascending  into  acutely  pointed  ga 
bles,  which  seem  to  belong  to  the  same  epoch  as  some  of 
the  edifices  in  our  own  earlier  towns ;  and  there  were 
pleasant-looking  cottages,  very  sylvan  and  rural,  with 
hedges  so  dense  and  high,  fencing  them  in,  as  almost  to 
hide  them  up  to  the  eaves  of  their  thatched  roofs.  In 
front  of  one  of  these  I  saw  various  images,  crosses,  and 
relics  of  antiquity,  among  which  were  fragments  of  old 
Catholic  tombstones,  disposed  by  way  of  ornament. 

We  now  went  home  to  the  Saracen's  Head  ;  and  as 
the  weather  was  very  unpropitious,  and  it  sprinkled  a 
little  now  and  then,  I  would  gladly  have  felt  myself  re 
leased  from  further  thraldom  to  the  Cathedral.  But  it 
had  taken  possession  of  me,  and  would  not  let  me  be  at 
rest ;  so  at  length  I  found  myself  compelled  to  climb  the 
hill  again,  between  daylight  and  dusk.  A  mist  was  now 
hovering  about  the  upper  height  of  the  great  central 
tower,  so  as  to  dim  and  half  obliterate  its  battlements 
and  pinnacles,  even  while  I  stood  in  the  close  beneath  it. 
It  was  the  most  impressive  view  that  I  had  had.  The 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  177 

whole  lower  part  of  the  structure  was  seen  \\ith  perfect 
distinctness ;  but  at  the  very  summit  the  mist  was  so 
dense  as  to  form  an  actual  cloud,  as  well  defined  as  ever 
I  saw  resting  on  a  mountain-top.  Really  and  literally, 
here  was  a  "  cloud-capt  tower." 

The  entire  Cathedral,  too,  transfigured  itself  into  a 
richer  beauty  and  more  imposing  majesty  than  ever. 
The  longer  I  looked,  the  better  I  loved  it.  Its  exterior 
is  certainly  far  more  beautiful  than  that  of  York  Min 
ster  ;  and  its  finer  effect  is  due,  I  think,  to  the  many  peaks 
in  which  the  structure  ascends,  and  to  the  pinnacles 
which,  as  it  were,  repeat  and  reecho  them  into  the  sky. 
York  Cathedral  is  comparatively  square  and  angular  in 
its  general  effect ;  but  in  this  at  Lincoln  there  is  a  con 
tinual  mystery  of  variety,  so  that  at  every  glance  you  are 
aware  of  a  change,  and  a  disclosure  of  something  new,  yet 
working  an  harmonious  development  of  what  you  have 
heretofore  seen.  The  west  front  is  unspeakably  grand,  and 
may  be  read  over  and  over  again  forever,  and  still  show 
undetected  meanings,  like  a  great,  broad  page  of  marvel 
lous  writing  in  black-letter,  —  so  many  sculptured  orna 
ments  there  are,  blossoming  out  before  your  eyes,  and 
gray  statues  that  have  grown  there  since  you  looked  last, 
and  empty  niches,  and  a  hundred  airy  canopies  beneath 
which  carved  images  used  to  be,  and  where  they  will 
show  themselves  again,  if  you  gaze  long  enough.  —  But 
I  will  not  say  another  word  about  the  Cathedral. 

We  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  within  the  sombre  pre 
cincts  of  the  Saracen's  Head,  reading  yesterday's  "Times," 
"  The  Guide-Book  of  Lincoln,"  and  "  The  Directory  of 
the  Eastern  Counties."  Dismal  as  the  weather  was,  the 
street  beneath  our  window  was  enlivened  with  a  great 
12 


!78  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

bustle  and  turmoil  of  people  all  the  evening,  because  It 
was  Saturday  night,  and  they  had  accomplished  their 
week's  toil,  received  their  wages,  and  were  making  their 
small  purchases  against  Sunday,  and  enjoying  themselves 
as  well  as  they  knew  how.  A  band  of  music  passed  to 
and  fro  several  times,  with  the  rain-drops  falling  into  the 
mouth  of  the  brazen  trumpet  and  pattering  on  the  bass- 
drum  ;  a  spirit-shop,  opposite  the  hotel,  had  a  vast  run 
of  custom ;  and  a  coffee-dealer,  in  the  open  air,  found 
occasional  vent  for  his  commodity,  in  spite  of  the  cold 
water  that  dripped  into  the  cups.  The  whole  breadth  of 
the  street,  between  the  Stone  Bow  and  the  bridge  across 
the  Witham,  was  thronged  to  overflowing,  and  humming 
with  human  life. 

Observing  in  the  Guide  Book  that  a  steamer  runs  on 
the  River  Witham  between  Lincoln  and  Boston,  I  in 
quired  of  the  waiter,  and  learned  that  she  was  to  start  on 
Monday  at  ten  o'clock.  Thinking  it  might  be  an  inter 
esting  trip,  and  a  pleasant  variation  of  our  customary 
mode  of  travel,  we  determined  to  make  the  voyage.  The 
Witham  flows  through  Lincoln,  crossing  the  main  street 
under  an  arched  bridge  of  Gothic  construction,  a  little 
below  the  Saracen's  Head.  It  has  more  the  appearance 
of  a  canal  than  of  a  river,  in  its  passage  through  the 
town,  —  being  bordered  with  hewn  stone  masonwork  on 
each  side,  and  provided  with  one  or  two  locks.  The 
eteamer  proved  to  be  small,  dirty,  and  altogether  incon 
venient  The  early  morning  had  been  bright ;  but  the 
sky  now  lowered  upon  us  with  a  sulky  English  temper, 
and  we  had  not  long  put  off  before  we  felt  an  ugly  wind 
from  the  German  Ocean  blowing  right  in  our  teeth. 
There  were  a  number  of  passengers  on  board,  country- 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  179 

people,  such  as  travel  by  third  class  on  the  railway  •,  for, 
I  suppose,  nobody  but  ourselves  ever  dreamt  of  voyaging 
by  the  steamer  for  the  sake  of  what  he  might  happen 
upon  in  the  way  of  river  scenery. 

We  bothered  a  good  while  about  getting  through  a 
preliminary  lock  ;  nor,  when  fairly  under  way,  did  we 
ever  accomplish,  I  think,  six  miles  an  hour.  Constant 
delays  were  caused,  moreover,  by  stopping  to  take  up 
passengers  and  freight,  —  not  at  regular  landing-places, 
but  anywhere  along  the  green  banks.  The  scenery  was 
identical  with  that  of  the  railway,  because  the  latter  runs 
along  by  the  riverside  through  the  whole  distance,  or 
nowhere  departs  from  it  except  to  make  a  short  cut 
across  some  sinuosity ;  so  that  our  only  advantage  lay  in 
the  drawling,  snail-like  slothfulness  of  our  progress, 
which  allowed  us  time  enough  and  to  spare  for  the  ob 
jects  along  the  shore.  Unfortunately,  there  was  nothing, 
or  next  to  nothing,  to  be  seen,  —  the  country  being  one 
unvaried  level  over  the  whole  thirty  miles  of  our  voyage, 
—  not  a  hill  in  sight,  either  near  or  far,  except  that  soli 
tary  one  on  the  summit  of  which  we  had  left  Lincoln 
Cathedral.  And  the  Cathedral  was  our  landmark  for 
four  hours  or  more,  and  at  last  rather  faded  out  than  was 
hidden  by  any  intervening  object. 

It  would  have  been  a  pleasantly  lazy  day  enough,  if 
the  rough  and  bitter  wind  had  not  blown  directly  in  our 
faces,  and  chilled  us  through,  in  spite  of  the  sunshine 
that  soon  succeeded  a  sprinkle  or  two  of  rain.  These 
English  east-winds,  which  prevail  from  February  till 
June,  are  greater  nuisances  than  the  east-wind  of  our 
own  Atlantic  coast,  although  they  do  not  bring  mist  and 
etorm,  as  with  us,  but  some  of  the  sumiest  weather  that 


180  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

Engl«»id  sees.  Under  their  influence,  the  sky  smiles  and 
is  villanous. 

The  landscape  was  tame  to  the  last  degree,  but  had  an 
English  character  that  was  abundantly  worth  our  look 
ing  at.  A  green  luxuriance  of  early  grass;  old,  high- 
roofed  farm-houses,  surrounded  by  their  stone  barns  and 
ricks  of  hay  and  grain  ;  ancient  villages,  with  the  square 
gray  tower  of  a  church  seen  afar  over  the  level  country, 
amid  the  cluster  of  red  roofs  ;  here  and  there  a  shadowy 
grove  of  venerable  trees,  surrounding  what  was  perhaps 
an  Elizabethan  hall,  though  it  looked  more  like  the  abode 
of  some  rich  yeoman.  Once,  too,  we  saw  the  tower  of  a 
medieval  castle,  that  of  Tattershall,  built  by  a  Crom 
well,  but  whether  of  the  Protector's  family  I  cannot  tell. 
But  the  gentry  do  not  appear  to  have  settled  multitu- 
dinously  in  this  tract  of  country ;  nor  is  it  to  be  won 
dered  at,  since  a  lover  of  the  picturesque  would  as  soon 
think  of  settling  in  Holland.  The  river  retains  its  canal- 
like  aspect  all  along ;  and  only  in  the  latter  part  of  its 
course  does  it  become  more  than  wide  enough  for  the 
little  steamer  to  turn  itself  round,  —  at  broadest,  not  more 
than  twice  that  width. 

The  only  memorable  incident  of  our  voyage  happened 
when  a  mother-duck  was  leading  her  little  fleet  of  five 
ducklings  across  the  river,  just  as  our  steamer  went 
swaggering  by,  stirring  the  quiet  stream  into  great  waves 
that  lashed  the  banks  on  either  side.  I  saw  the  immi 
nence  of  the  catastrophe,  and  hurried  to  the  stern  of  the 
boat  to  witness  its  consummation,  since  I  could  not  pos 
sibly  avert  it.  The  poor  ducklings  had  uttered  their 
baby-quacks,  and  striven  with  all  their  tiny  might  to 
escape :  four  of  them,  I  believe,  were  washed  aside  and 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  181 

t/nown  off  unhurt  from  the  steamer's  prow ;  but  the  fifth 
must  have  gone  under  the  whole  length  of  the  keel,  and 
never  could  have  come  up  alive. 

At  last,  in  mid-afternoon,  we  beheld  the  tall  tower  of 
Saint  Botolph's  Church  (three  hundred  feet  high,  the 
same  elevation  as  the  tallest  tower  of  Lincoln  Cathedral) 
looming  in  the  distance.  At  about  half-past  four  we 
•cached  Boston,  (which  name  has  been  shortened,  in  the 
course  of  ages,  by  the  quick  and  slovenly  English  pro 
nunciation,  from  Botolph's  town,)  and  were  taken  by  a 
cab  to  the  Peacock,  in  the  market-place.  It  was  the  best 
hotel  in  town,  though  a  poor  one  enough ;  and  we  were 
shown  into  a  small,  stifled  parlor,  dingy,  musty,  and 
scented  with  stale  tobacco-smoke,  —  tobacco-smoke  two 
days  old,  for  the  waiter  assured  us  that  the  room  had  not 
more  recently  been  fumigated.  An  exceedingly  grim 
waiter  he  was,  apparently  a  genuine  descendant  of  the 
old  Puritans  of  this  English  Boston,  and  quite  as  sour 
as  those  who  people  the  daughter-city  in  New  England. 
Our  parlor  had  the  one  recommendation  of  looking  into 
the  market-place,  and  affording  a  sidelong  glimpse  of  the 
tall  spire  and  noble  old  church. 

Tn  my  first  ramble  about  the  town,  chance  led  me  to 
the  riverside,  at  that  quarter  where  the  port  is  situated. 
Here  were  long  buildings  of  an  old-fashioned  aspect, 
seemingly  warehouses,  with  windows  in  the  high,  steep 
roofs.  The  Custom-House  found  ample  accommodation 
within  an  ordinary  dwelling-house.  Two  or  three  large 
schooners  were  moored  along  the  river's  brink,  which 
had  here  a  stone  margin;  another  large  and  handsome 
schooner  was  evidently  just  finished,  rigged  and  equipped 
for  her  first  voyage ;  the  rudiments  of  another  were  on 


J82  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

the  stocks,  in  a  shipyard  bordering  on  the  river.  Still 
another,  while  I  was  looking  on,  came  up  the  stream,  and 
lowered  her  mainsail,  from  a  foreign  voyage.  An  old 
man  on  the  bank  hailed  her  and  inquired  about  her 
cargo ;  but  the  Lincolnshire  people  have  such  a  queer 
way  of  talking  English  that  I  could  not  understand  the 
reply.  Farther  down  the  river,  I  saw  a  brig,  approach 
ing  rapidly  under  sail.  The  whole  scene  made  an  odd 
impression  of  bustle,  and  sluggishness,  and  decay,  and  a 
remnant  of  wholesome  life  ;  and  I  could  not  but  contrast 
it  with  the  mighty  and  populous  activity  of  our  own  Bos 
ton,  which  was  once  the  feeble  infant  of  this  old  English 
town  ;  —  the  latter,  perhaps,  almost  stationary  ever  since 
that  day,  as  if  the  birth  of  such  an  offspring  had  taken 
away  its  own  principle  of  growth.  I  thought  of  Long 
Wharf,  and  Faneuil  Hall,  and  Washington  Street,  and  the 
Great  Elm,  and  the  State  House,  and  exulted  lustily,  — 
but  yet  began  to  feel  at  home  in  this  good  old  town,  for 
its  very  name's  sake,  as  I  never  had  before  felt,  in  England. 
The  next  morning  we  came  out  in  the  early  sunshine, 
(the  sun  must  have  been  shining  nearly  four  hours,  how 
ever,  for  it  was  after  eight  o'clock,)  and  strolled  about 
the  streets,  like  people  who  had  a  right  to  be  there. 
The  market-place  of  Boston  is  an  irregular  square,  into 
one  end  of  which  the  chancel  of  the  church  slightly 
projects.  The  gates  of  the  churchyard  were  open  and 
free  to  all  passengers,  and  the  common  footway  of  the 
towns-people  seems  to  lie  to  and  fro  across  it.  It  is 
paved,  according  to  English  custom,  with  flat  tomb 
stones  ;  and  there  are  also  raised  or  altar  tombs,  some 
of  which  have  armorial  bearings  on  them.  One  clergy 
man  has  caused  himself  and  his  wife  to  be  b  iried  right 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  183 

in  the  middle  of  the  stone-bordered  path  that  traverses 
the  churchyard;  so  that  not  an  individual  of  the  thou 
sands  who  pass  along  this  public  way  can  help  trampling 
over  him  or  her.  The  scene,  nevertheless,  was  very 
cheerful  in  the  morning  sun :  people  going  about  their 
business  in  the  day's  primal  freshness,  which  was  just  as 
fresh  here  as  in  younger  villages ;  children,  with  milk- 
pails,  loitering  over  the  burial-stones ;  school-boys  play 
ing  leap-frog  with  the  altar-tombs ;  the  simple  old  town 
preparing  itself  for  the  day,  which  would  be  like  myriads 
of  other  days  that  had  passed  over  it,  but  yet  would  be 
worth  living  through.  And  down  on  the  churchyard, 
where  were  buried  many  generations  whom  it  remem 
bered  in  their  time,  looked  the  stately  tower  of  Saint 
Botolph  ;  and  it  was  good  to  see  and  think  of  such  an 
age-long  giant,  intermarrying  the  present  epoch  with  a 
distant  past,  and  getting  quite  imbued  with  human  nature 
by  being  so  immemorially  connected  with  men's  familiar 
knowledge  and  homely  interests.  It  is  a  noble  tower ; 
and  the  jackdaws  evidently  have  pleasant  homes  in  their 
hereditary  nests  among  its  topmost  windows,  and  live  de 
lightful  lives,  flitting  and  cawing  about  its  pinnacles  and 
flying  buttresses.  I  should  almost  like  to  be  a  jackdaw 
myself,  for  the  sake  of  living  up  there. 

In  front  of  the  church,  not  more  than  twenty  yards  off, 
and  with  a  low  brick  wall  between,  flows  the  River 
\Vitham.  On  the  hither  bank  a  fisherman  was  washing 
his  boat ;  and  another  skiff,  with  her  sail  lazily  half- 
twisted,  lay  on  the  opposite  strand.  The  stream,  at  this 
point,  is  about  of  such  width,  that,  if  the  tall  tower  were 
to  tumble  over  flat  on  its  face,  its  top-stone  might  per- 
baps  reach  to  the  middle  of  the  channel.  On  the  farther 


184  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON- 

shore  there  is  a  line  of  antique-looking  houses,  with 
roofs  of  red  tile,  and  windows  opening  out  of  them,  — • 
some  of  these  dwellings  being  so  ancient,  that  the  Rev 
erend  Mr.  Cotton,  subsequently  our  first  Boston  minister, 
must  have  seen  them  with  his  own  bodily  eyes,  when  he 
used  to  issue  from  the  front-portal  after  service.  Indeed, 
there  must  be  very  many  houses  here,  and  even  some 
streets,  that  bear  much  the  aspect  that  they  did  when  the 
Puritan  divine  paced  solemnly  among  them. 

In  our  rambles  about  town,  we  went  into  a  booksel 
ler's  shop  to  inquire  if  he  had  any  description  of  Boston 
for  sale.  He  offered  me  (or,  rather,  produced  for  in 
spection,  not  supposing  that  I  would  buy  it)  a  quarto  his 
tory  of  the  town,  published  by  subscription,  nearly  forty 
years  ago.  The  bookseller  showed  himself  a  well-in 
formed  and  affable  man,  and  a  local  antiquary,  to  whom  a 
party  of  inquisitive  strangers  were  a  godsend.  He  had  met 
with  several  Americans,  who,  at  various  times,  had  come 
on  pilgrimages  to  this  place,  and  he  had  been  in  corres 
pondence  with  others.  Happening  to  have  heard  the  name 
of  one  member  of  our  party,  he  showed  us  great  courtesy 
and  kindness,  and  invited  us  into  his  inner  domicile, 
where,  as  he  modestly  intimated,  he  kept  a  few  articles 
which  it  might  interest  us  to  see.  So  we  went  with  him 
through  the  shop,  up-stairs,  into  the  private  part  of  his 
establishment ;  and,  really,  it  was  one  of  the  rarest  ad 
ventures  I  ever  met  with,  to  stumble  upon  this  treasure 
of  a  man,  with  his  treasury  of  antiquities  and  curiosities, 
veiled  behind  the  unostentatious  front  of  a  bookseller's 
shop,  in  a  very  moderate  line  of  village  business.  The 
two  up-stair  rooms  into  which  he  introduced  us  were  so 
crowded  ^ith  inestimable  articles,  that  we  were  almost 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  185 

afraid  to  stir,  for  fear  of  breaking  some  fragile  thing  that 
had  been  accumulating  value  for  unknown  centuries. 

The  apartment  was  hung  round  with  pictures  and  old 
engravings,  many  of  which  were  extremely  rare.  Pre 
mising  that  he  was  going  to  show  us  something  very 
curious,  Mr.  Porter  went  into  the  next  room  and  re 
turned  with  a  counterpane  of  fine  linen,  elaborately  em 
broidered  with  silk,  which  so  profusely  covered  the  linen 
that  the  general  effect  was  as  if  the  main  texture  were 
silken.  It  was  stained,  and  seemed  very  old,  and  had  an 
ancient  fragrance.  It  was  wrought  all  over  with  birds 
and  flowers  in  a  most  delicate  style  of  needlework,  and 
among  other  devices,  more  than  once  repeated,  was  the 
cipher,  M.  S.,  —  being  the  initials  of  one  of  the  most  un 
happy  names  that  ever  a  woman  bore.  This  quilt  was 
embroidered  by  the  hands  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  dur 
ing  her  imprisonment  at  Fotheringay  Castle ;  and  having 
evidently  been  a  work  of  years,  she  had  doubtless  shed 
many  tears  over  it,  and  wrought  many  doleful  thoughts 
and  abortive  schemes  into  its  texture,  along  with  the 
birds  and  flowers.  As  a  counterpart  to  this  most  pre 
cious  relic,  our  friend  produced  some  of  the  handiwork 
of  a  former  Queen  of  Otaheite,  presented  by  her  to  Cap 
tain  Cook  :  it  was  a  bag,  cunningly  made  of  some  deli 
cate  vegetable  stuff,  and  ornamented  with  feathers. 
Next,  he  brought  out  a  green  silk  waistcoat  of  very 
antique  fashion,  trimmed  about  the  edges  and  pocket- 
holes  with  a  rich  and  delicate  embroidery  of  gold  and 
silver.  This  (as  the  possessor  of  the  treasure  proved,  by 
tracing  its  pedigree  till  it  came  into  his  hands)  was  once 
the  vestment  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  Lord  Burleigh  :  but 
that  great  statesman  must  have  been  a  person  of  very 


186  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

moderate  girth  in  the  chest  and  waist ;  for  the  garment 
was  hardly  more  than  a  comfortable  fit  for  a  boy  of 
eleven,  the  smallest  American  of  our  party,  who  tried  on 
the  gorgeous  waistcoat.  Then,  Mr.  Porter  produced  some 
curiously  engraved  drinking-glasses,  with  a  view  of  Saint 
Botolph's  steeple  on  one  of  them,  and  other  Boston  edi 
fices,  public  or  domestic,  on  the  remaining  two,  very  ad 
mirably  done.  These  crystal  goblets  had  been  a  present, 
long  ago,  to  an  old  master  of  the  Free  School  from  his 
pupils ;  and  it  is  very  rarely,  I  imagine,  that  a  retired 
schoolmaster  can  exhibit  such  trophies  of  gratitude  and 
affection,  won  from  the  victims  of  his  birch  rod. 

Our  kind  friend  kept  bringing  out  one  unexpected  and 
wholly  unexpectable  thing  after  another,  as  if  he  were  a 
magician,  and  had  only  to  fling  a  private  signal  into  the 
air,  and  some  attendant  imp  would  hand  forth  any  strange 
relic  we  might  choose  to  ask  for.  He  was  especially  rich 
in  drawings  by  the  Old  Masters,  producing  two  or  three, 
of  exquisite  delicacy,  by  Raphael,  one  by  Salvator,  a  head 
by  Rembrandt,  and  others,  in  chalk  or  pen-and-ink,  by 
Giordano,  Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  hands  almost  as  fa 
mous  ;  and  besides  what  were  shown  us,  there  seemed  to 
be  an  endless  supply  of  these  art-treasures  in  reserve. 
On  the  wall  hung  a  crayon-portrait  of  Sterne,  never  en 
graved,  representing  him  as  a  rather  young  man,  bloom 
ing,  and  not  uncomely :  it  was  the  worldly  face  of  a  man 
fond  of  pleasure,  but  without  that  ugly,  keen,  sarcastic, 
odd  expression  that  we  see  in  his  only  engraved  portrait. 
The  picture  is  an  original,  and  must  needs  be  very  valu 
able  ;  and  we  wish  it  might  be  prefixed  to  some  new  and 
worthier  biography  of  a  writer  whose  character  the  world 
has  always  treated  with  singular  harshness,  considering 


PILGRIMAGE  TO   OLD  BOSTON.  187 

how  much  it  owes  him.  There  was  likewise  a  crayon- 
portrait  of  Sterne's  wife,  looking  so  haughty  and  un- 
amiable,  that  the  wonder  is,  not  that  he  ultimately  left 
her,  hut  how  he  ever  contrived  to  live  a  week  with  such 
an  awful  woman. 

After  looking  at  these,  and  a  great  many  more  things 
than  I  can  rememher,  above  stairs,  we  went  down  to  a 
parlor,  where  tlu's  wonderful  bookseller  opened  an  old 
cabinet,  containing  numberless  drawers,  and  looking  just 
fit  to  be  the  repository  of  such  knick-knacks  as  were 
stored  up  in  it.  He  appeared  to  possess  more  treasures 
than  he  himself  knew  of,  or  knew  where  to  find ;  but, 
rummaging  here  and  there,  he  brought  forth  things  new 
and  old :  rose-nobles,  Victoria  crowns,  gold  angels,  double- 
sovereigns  of  George  IV.,  two-guinea  pieces  of  George 
II. ;  a  marriage-medal  of  the  first  Napoleon,  only  forty- 
five  of  which  were  ever  struck  off,  and  of  which  even 
the  British  Museum  does  not  contain  a  specimen  like 
this,  in  gold ;  a  brass  medal,  three  or  four  inches  in 
diameter,  of  a  Roman  emperor ;  together  with  buckles, 
bracelets,  amulets,  and  I  know  not  what  besides.  There 
was  a  green  silk  tassel  from  the  fringe  of  Queen  Mary's 
bed  at  ITolyrood  Palace.  There  were  illuminated  mis 
sals,  antique  Latin  Bibles,  and  (what  may  seem  of  es 
pecial  interest  to  the  historian)  a  Secret-Book  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  in  manuscript,  written,  for  aught  I  know,  by 
her  own  hand.  On  examination,  however,  it  proved  to 
contain,  not  secrets  of  state,  but  recipes  for  dishes, 
drinks,  medicines,  washes,  and  all  such  matters  of  house 
wifery,  the  toilet,  and  domestic  quackery,  among  which 
we  were  horrified  by  the  title  of  one  of  the  nostrums, 
"  How  to  kill  a  Fellow  quickly  "  !  We  never  doubted 


188  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

that  bloody  Queen  Bess  might  often  have  had  occasion 
for  such  a  recipe,  but  wondered  at  her  frankness,  and  at 
her  attending  to  these  anomalous  necessities  in  such  a 
methodical  way.  The  truth  is,  we  had  read  amiss,  and 
the  Queen  had  spelt  amiss  :  the  word  was  "  Fellon," —  a 
Bort  of  whitlow,  —  not  "  Fellow." 

Our  hospitable  friend  now  made  us  drink  a  glass  of 
wine,  as  old  and  genuine  as  the  curiosities  of  his  cabinet ; 
and  while  sipping  it,  we  ungratefully  tried  to  excite  hi* 
envy,  by  telling  of  various  things,  interesting  to  an  an 
tiquary  and  virtuoso,  which  we  had  seen  in  the  course  of 
our  travels  about  England.  We  spoke,  for  instance,  of  a 
missal  bound  in  solid  gold  and  set  around  with  jewels, 
but  of  such  intrinsic  value  as  no  setting  could  enhance, 
for  it  was  exquisitely  illuminated,  throughout,  by  the 
hand  of  Raphael  himself.  We  mentioned  a  little  silver 
rase  which  once  contained  a  portion  of  the  heart  of  Louis 
XIV.  nicely  done  up  in  spices,  but,  to  the  owner's  horror 
and  astonishment,  Dean  Buckland  popped  the  kingly 
morsel  into  his  mouth,  and  swallowed  it.  We  told  about 
the  black-letter  prayer-book  of  King  Charles  the  Martyr, 
used  by  him  upon  the  scaffold,  taking  which  into  our 
hands,  it  opened  of  itself  at  the  Communion  Service ; 
and  there,  on  the  left-hand  page,  appeared  a  spot  about 
as  large  as  a  sixpence,  of  a  yellowish  or  brownish  hue  : 
a  drop  of  the  King's  blood  had  fallen  there. 

Mr.  Porter  now  accompanied  us  to  the  church,  but  first 
leading  us  to  a  vacant  spot  of  ground  where  old  John 
Cotton's  vicarage  had  stood  till  a  very  short  time  since. 
According  to  our  friend's  description,  it  was  a  humble 
habitation,  of  the  cottage  order,  built  of  brick,  with  a 
thatched  roof.  The  site  is  now  rudely  fenced  in,  and 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  189 

cultivated  as  a  vegetable  garden.  In  the  right-hand  aisle 
of  the  church  there  is  an  ancient  chapel,  which,  at  the 
time  of  our  visit,  was  in  process  of  restoration,  and  was 
to  be  dedicated  to  Mr.  Cotton,  whom  these  English  peo 
ple  consider  as  the  founder  of  our  American  Boston.  It 
would  contain  a  painted  memorial-window,  in  honor  of 
the  old  Puritan  minister.  A  festival  in  commemoration 
of  the  event  was  to  take  place  in  the  ensuing  July,  to 
which  I  had  myself  received  an  invitation,  but  I  knew 
too  well  the  pains  and  penalties  incurred  by  an  invited 
guest  at  public  festivals  in  England  to  accept  it.  It 
ought  to  be  recorded,  (and  it  seems  to  have  made  a  very 
kindly  impression  on  our  kinsfolk  here,)  that  five  hun 
dred  pounds  had  been  contributed  by  persons  in  the 
United  States,  principally  in  Boston,  towards  the  cost  of 
the  memorial-window,  and  the  repair  and  restoration  of 
the  chapel. 

After  we  emerged  from  the  chapel,  Mr.  Porter  ap 
proached  us  with  the  vicar,  to  whom  he  kindly  introduced 
us,  and  then  took  his  leave.  May  a  stranger's  benedic 
tion  rest  upon  him  !  He  is  a  most  pleasant  man  ;  rather, 
I  imagine,  a  virtuoso  than  an  antiquary ;  for  he  seemed 
to  value  the  Queen  of  Otaheite's  bag  as  highly  as  Queen 
Mary's  embroidered  quilt,  and  to  have  an  omnivorous 
appetite  for  everything  strange  and  rare.  Would  that 
we  could  fill  up  his  shelves  and  drawers  (if  there  are  any 
vacant  spaces  left)  with  the  choicest  trifles  that  have 
dropped  out  of  Time's  carpet-bag,  or  give  him  the  carpet 
bag  itself,  to  take  out  what  he  will ! 

The  vicar  looked  about  thirty  years  old,  a  gentleman, 
evidently  assured  of  his  position,  (as  clergymen  of  the 
Established  Church  invariably  are,)  comfortable  and 


190  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

well-to-do,  a  scholar  and  a  Christian,  and  fit  to  be  a 
bishop,  knowing  how  to  make  the  most  of  life  without 
prejudice  to  the  life  to  come.  I  was  glad  to  see  such  a 
model  English  priest  so  suitably  accommodated  with  an 
old  English  church.  He  kindly  and  courteously  did  the 
honors,  showing  us  quite  round  the  interior,  giving  us 
nil  the  information  that  we  required,  and  then  leaving  us 
to  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  what  we  came  to  see. 

The  interior  of  Saint  Botolph's  is  very  fine  and  satis 
factory,  as  stately,  almost,  as  a  cathedral,  and  has  been 
repaired — so  far  as  repairs  were  necessary  —  in  a  chaste 
and  noble  style.  The  great  eastern  window  is  of  modern 
painted  glass,  but  is  the  richest,  mellowest,  and  tenderest 
modern  window  that  I  have  ever  seen  :  the  art  of  paint 
ing  these  glowing  transparencies  in  pristine  perfection 
being  one  that  the  world  has  lost.  The  vast,  clear  space 
of  the  interior  church  delighted  me.  There  was  no  screen, 
—  nothing  between  the  vestibule  and  the  altar  to  break 
the  long  vista  ;  even  the  organ  stood  aside,  —  though  it 
by  and  by  made  us  aware  of  its  presence  by  a  melodious 
roar.  Around  the  walls  there  were  old  engraved  brasses, 
and  a  stone  coffin,  and  an  alabaster  knight  of  Saint  John, 
and  an  alabaster  lady,  each  recumbent  at  full  length,  as 
large  as  life,  and  in  perfect  preservation,  except  for  9 
slight  modern  touch  at  the  tips  of  their  noses.  In  the 
chancel  we  saw  a  great  deal  of  oaken  work,  quaintly  and 
admirably  carved,  especially  about  the  seats  formerly  ap 
propriated  to  the  monks,  which  were  so  contrived  as  to 
tumble  down  with  a  tremendous  crash,  if  the  occupant 
happened  to  fall  asleep. 

We  now  essayed  to  climb  into  the  upper  regions.  Tip 
we  went,  winding  and  still  winding  round  the  circular 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  191 

stairs,  till  we  came  to  the  gallery  beneath  the  stone  roof 
of  the  tower,  whence  we  could  look  down  and  see  the 
raised  Font,  and  my  Talma  lying  on  one  of  the  steps> 
and  looking  about  as  Dig  as  a  pocket-handkerchief.  Then 
up  again,  up,  up,  up,  through  a  yet  smaller  staircase,  till 
we  emerged  into  another  stone  gallery,  above  the  jack 
daws,  and  far  above  the  roof  beneath  which  we  had  be 
fore  made  a  halt.  Then  up  another  flight,  which  led  U3 
into  a  pinnacle  of  the  temple,  but  not  the  highest ;  so,  re 
tracing  our  steps,  we  took  the  right  turret  this  time,  and 
emerged  into  the  loftiest  lantern,  where  we  saw  level 
Lincolnshire,  far  and  near,  though  with  a  haze  on  the 
distant  horizon.  There  were  dusty  roads,  a  river,  and 
canals,  converging  towards  Boston,  which  —  a  congrega 
tion  of  red-tiled  roofs  —  lay  beneath  our  feet,  with  pigmy 
people  creeping  about  its  narrow  streets.  We  were  three 
hundred  feet  aloft,  and  the  pinnacle  on  which  we  stood  is 
a  landmark  forty  miles  at  sea. 

Content,  an*d  weary  of  our  elevation,  we  descended  the 
corkscrew  stairs  and  left  the  church  ;  the  last  object  that 
we  noticed  in  the  interior  being  a  bird,  which  appeared 
to  be  at  home  there,  and  responded  with  its  cheerful 
notes  to  the  swell  of  the  organ.  Pausing  on  the  church- 
steps,  we  observed  that  there  were  formerly  two  statues, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  doorway ;  the  canopies  still  re 
maining,  and  the  pedestals  being  about  a  yard  from  the 
ground.  Some  of  Mr.  Cotton's  Puritan  parishioners  are 
probably  responsible  for  the  disappearance  of  these  stone 
saints.  This  doorway  at  the  base  of  the  tower  is  now 
much  dilapidated,  but  must  once  have  been  very  rich  and 
of  a  peculiar  fashion.  It  opens  its  arch  through  a  great 
square  tablet  of  stone,  reared  against  the  front  of  the 


192  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

tower.  On  most  of  the  projections,  whether  on  the 
tower  or  about  the  body  of  the  church,  there  are  gar 
goyles  of  genuine  Gothic  grotesqueness,  —  fiends,  beasts, 
angels,  and  combinations  of  all  three;  and  where  por 
tions  of  the  edifice  are  restored,  the  modern  sculptors 
have  tried  to  imitate  these  wild  fantasies,  but  with  veiy 
poor  success.  Extravagance  and  absurdity  have  still 
their  law,  and  should  pay  as  rigid  obedience  to  it  as  the 
primmest  things  on  earth. 

In  our  further  rambles  about  Boston,  we  crossed  the 
river  by  a  bridge,  and  observed  that  the  larger  part  of 
the  town  seems  to  lie  on  that  side  of  its  navigable  stream. 
The  crooked  streets  and  narrow  lanes  reminded  me  much 
of  Hanover  Street,  Ann  Street,  and  other  portions  of  the 
North  End  of  our  American  Boston,  as  I  remember  that 
picturesque  region  in  my  boyish  days.  It  is  not  un 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  local  habits  and  recollec 
tions  of  the  first  settlers  may  have  had  some  influence  on 
the  physical  character  of  the  streets  and  houses  in  the 
New  England  metropolis  ;  at  any  rate,  here  is  a  similar 
intricacy  of  bewildering  lanes,  and  numbers  of  old  peaked 
and  projecting-storied  dwellings,  such  as  I  used  to  see 
there.  It  is  singular  what  a  home-feeling  and  sense  of 
kindred  I  derived  from  this  hereditary  connection  and 
fancied  physiognomical  resemblance  between  the  old 
town  and  its  well-grown  daughter,  and  how  reluctant  I 
was,  after  chill  years  of  banishment,  to  leave  this  hos 
pitable  place,  on  that  account.  Moreover,  it  recalled 
some  of  the  features  of  another  American  town,  my  own 
dear  native  place,  when  I  saw  the  seafaring  people  lean 
ing  against  posts,  and  sitting  on  planks,  under  the  lee  of 
warehouses.  —  or  lolling  on  long-boats,  drawn  up  high 


PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON.  193 

and  dry,  ins  sailors  and  old  wharf-rats  are  accustomed  to 
do,  in  seaports  of  little  business.  In  other  respects,  the 
English  town  is  more  village-like  than  either  of  the 
American  ones.  The  women  and  budding  girls  chat  to 
gether  at  their  doors,  and  exchange  merry  greetings  with 
young  men  ;  children  chase  one  another  in  the  summer 
twilight ;  school-boys  sail  little  boats  on  the  river,  or 
play  at  marbles  across  the  flat  tombstones  in  the  church 
yard  ;  and  ancient  men,  in  breeches  and  long  waistcoats, 
wander  slowly  about  the  streets,  with  a  certain  familiarity 
of  deportment,  as  if  each  one  were  everybody's  grand 
father.  I  have  frequently  observed,  in  old  English 
towns,  that  Old  Age  comes  forth  more  cheerfully  and 
genially  into  the  sunshine  than  among  ourselves,  where 
the  rush,  stir,  bustle,  and  irreverent  energy  of  youth  are 
so  preponderant,  that  the  poor,  forlorn  grandsires  begin 
to  doubt  whether  they  have  a  right  to  breathe  in  such  a 
world  any  longer,  and  so  hide  their  silvery  heads  in  soli 
tude.  Speaking  of  old  men,  I  am  reminded  of  the 
scholars  of  the  Boston  Charity-School,  who  walk  about 
in  antique,  long-skirted  blue  coats,  and  knee-breeches, 
and  with  bands  at  their  necks,  —  perfect  and  grotesque 
pictures  of  the  costume  of  three  centuries  ago. 

On  the  morning  of  our  departure,  I  looked  from  the 
parlor-window  of  the  Peacock  into  the  market-place, 
and  beheld  its  irregular  square  already  well  covered  with 
booths,  and  more  in  process  of  being  put  up,  by  stretch 
ing  tattered  sail-cloth  on  poles.  It  was  market-day 
The  dealers  were  arranging  their  commodities,  consist 
ing  chiefly  of  vegetables,  the  great  bulk  of  which  seemed 
to  be  cabbages.  Later  in  the  forenoon  there  was  a  much 
greater  varietj  of  merchandise :  basket-work,  both  for 
13 


104  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON. 

fancy  and  use  ;  twig-brooms,  beehives,  oranges,  rustic 
attire ;  all  sorts  of  things,  in  short,  that  are  commonly 
sold  at  a  rural  fair.  I  heard  the  lowing  of  cattle,  too, 
and  the  bleating  of  sheep,  and  found  that  there  was  a 
market  for  cows,  oxen,  and  pigs,  in  another  part  of  the 
town.  A  crowd  of  towns-people  and  Lincolnshire  yeo 
men  elbowed  one  another  in  the  square  ;  Mr.  Punch  was 
squeaking  in  one  corner,  and  a  vagabond  juggler  tried  to 
find  space  for  his  exhibition  in  another :  so  that  my  final 
glimpse  of  Boston  was  calculated  to  leave  a  livelier  im 
pression  than  my  former  ones.  Meanwhile  the  tower  of 
Saint  Botolph's  looked  benignantly  down  ;  and  I  fancied 
it  was  bidding  me  farewell,  as  it  did  Mr.  Cotton,  two  or 
three  hundred  years  ago,  and  telling  me  to  describe  its 
venerable  height,  and  the  ^  town  beneath  it,  to  the  people, 
of  the  American  city,  who  are  partly  akin,  if  not  to  the 
living  inhabitants  of  Old  Boston,  yet  to  some  of  the  dust 
that  lies  in  its  churchyard. 

One  thing  more.  They  have  a  Bunker  Hill  in  the 
vicinity  of  their  town ;  and  (what  could  hardly  be  ex 
pected  of  an  English  community)  seem  proud  to  think 
that  their  neighborhood  has  given  name  to  our  first  and 
most  widely  celebrated  and  best  remembered  battle* 
Beld. 


NEAR    OXFORD. 

ON  a  fine  morning  in  September,  we  set  out  on  an 
excursion  to  Blenheim,  —  the  sculptor  and  myself  being 
seated  on  the  box  of  our  four-horse  carriage,  two  more 
of  the  party  in  the  dicky,  and  the  others  less  agreeably 
accommodated  inside.  We  had  no  coachman,  but  two 
postilions  in  short  scarlet  jackets  and  leather  breeches 
with  top-boots,  each  astride  of  a  horse  ;  so  that,  all  the 
way  along,  when  not  otherwise  attracted,  we  had  the 
interesting  spectacle  of  their  up-and-down  bobbing  in 
the  saddle.  It  was  a  sunny  and  beautiful  day,  a  speci 
men  of  the  perfect  English  weather,  just  warm  enough 
for  comfort,  —  indeed,  a  little  too  warm,  perhaps,  in  the 
noontide  sun,  —  yet  retaining  a  mere  spice  or  suspicion 
of  austerity,  which  made  it  all  the  more  enjoyable. 

The  country  between  Oxford  and  Blenheim  is  not  par 
ticularly  interesting,  being  almost  level,  or  undulating  very 
slightly;  nor  is  Oxfordshire,  agriculturally,  a  rich  part 
of  England.  We  saw  one  or  two  hamlets,  and  I  espe 
cially  remember  a  picturesque  old  gabled  house  at  a 
turnpike-gate,  and,  altogether,  the  wayside  scenery  had 
an  aspect  of  old-fashioned  English  life  ;  but  there  was 
nothing  very  memorable  till  we  reached  Woodstock,  and 
Btopped  to  water  our  horses  at  the  Black  Bear.  This 
neighborhood  is  called  New  Woodstock,  but  has  by 
no  means  the  brand-new  appearance  of  an  American 


196  NEAR  OXFORD. 

town,  being  a  large  village  of  stone  houses,  most  of  them 
pretty  well  time-worn  and  weather-stained.  The  Bl»ck 
Bear  is  an  ancient  inn,  large  and  respectable,  with  balus- 
traded  staircases,  and  intricate  passages  and  corridors, 
and  queer  old  pictures  and  engravings  hanging  in  the 
entries  and  apartments.  We  ordered  a  lunch  (the  most 
delightful  of  English  institutions,  next  to  dinner)  to  be 
ready  against  our  return,  and  then  resumed  our  drive  tc 
Blenheim. 

The  park-gate  of  Blenheim  stands  close  to  the  end  of 
the  village-street  of  "Woodstock.  Immediately  on  pass 
ing  through  its  portals,  we  saw  the  stately  palace  in  the 
distance,  but  made  a  wide  circuit  of  the  park  before  ap 
proaching  it.  This  noble  park  contains  three  thousand 
acres  of  land,  and  is  fourteen  miles  in  circumference. 
Having  been,  in  part,  a  royal  domain  before  it  was 
granted  to  the  Marlborough  family,  it  contains  many 
trees  of  unsurpassed  antiquity,  and  has  doubtless  been 
the  haunt  of  game  and  deer  for  centuries.  We  saw 
pheasants  in  abundance,  feeding  in  the  open  lawns  and 
glades ;  and  the  stags  tossed  their  antlers  and  bounded 
away,  not  affrighted,  but  only  shy  and  gamesome,  as  we 
drove  by.  It  is  a  magnificent  pleasure-ground,  not  too 
tamely  kept,  nor  rigidly  subjected  within  rule,  but  vast 
enough  to  have  lapsed  back  into  Nature  again,  after  all 
the  pains  that  the  landscape-gardeners  of  Queen  Anne's 
time  bestowed  on  it,  when  the  domain  of  Blenheim  was 
scientifically  laid  out.  The  great,  knotted,  slanting 
trunks  of  the  old  oaks  do  not  now  look  as  if  man  had 
much  intermeddled  with  their  growth  and  postures.  The 
trees  of  later  date,  that  were  set  out  in  the  Great  Duke'a 
time,  are  arranged  on  the  plan  of  the  order  of  battle  in 


NEAR   OXFORD.  197 

which  the  illustrious  commander  ranked  his  troops  at 
Blenheim  ;  but  the  ground  covered  is  so  extensive,  and 
the  trees  now  so  luxuriant,  that  the  spectator  is  not  dis- 
agreeably  conscious  of  their  standing  in  military  array, 
i\s  if  Orpheus  had  summoned  them  together  by  beat  of 
drum.  The  effect  must  have  been  very  formal  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago,  but  has  ceased  to  be  so,  —  although 
the  trees,  I  presume,  have  kept  their  ranks  with  even 
more  fidelity  than  Marlborough's  veterans  did. 

One  of  the  park-keepers,  on  horseback,  rode  beside 
our  carriage,  pointing  out  the  choice  views,  and  glimpses 
at  the  palace,  as  we  drove  through  the  domain.  There  is 
a  very  large  artificial  lake,  (to  say  the  truth,  it  seemed 
to  me  fully  worthy  of  being  compared  with  the  Welsh 
lakes,  at  least,  if  not  with  those  of  Westmoreland,)  which 
was  created  by  Capability  Brown,  and  fills  the  basin  that 
he  scooped  for  it,  just  as  if  Nature  had  poured  these 
broad  waters  into  one  of  her  own  valleys.  It  is  a  most 
beautiful  object  at  a  distance,  and  not  less  so  on  its  imme 
diate  banks  ;  for  the  water  is  very  pure,  being  supplied 
by  a  small  river,  of  the  choicest  transparency,  which  was 
turned  thitherward  for  the  purpose.  And  Blenheim  owes 
not  merely  this  water-scenery,  but  almost  all  its  other 
beauties,  to  the  contrivance  of  man.  Its  natural  features 
are  not  striking ;  but  Art  has  effected  such  wonderful 
things  that  the  uninstructed  visitor  would  never  guess  that 
nearly  the  whole  scene  was  but  the  embodied  thought  of 
a  human  mind.  A  skilful  painter  hardly  does  more  for  his 
blank  sheet  of  canvas  than  the  landscape-gardener,  the 
planter,  the  arranger  of  trees,  has  done  for  the  monoto 
nous  surface  of  Blenheim,  —  making  the  most  of  every 
undulation,  —  flinging  down  a  hillock,  a  big  lump  of  earth 


108  NEAR  OXFORD. 

out  of  a  giant's  hand,  wherever  it  was  needed,  —  putting 
in  beauty  as  often  as  there  was  a  niche  for  it,  —  opening 
vistas  to  every  point  that  deserved  to  be  seen,  and  throw 
ing  a  veil  of  impenetrable  foliage  around  what  ought  to 
be  hidden ;  —  and  then,  to  be  sure,  the  lapse  of  a  cen 
tury  has  softened  the  harsh  outline  of  man's  labors,  and 
has  given  the  place  back  to  Nature  again  with  the  addi 
tion  of  what  consummate  science  could  achieve. 

After  driving  a  good  way,  we  came  to  a  battlemented 
tower  and  adjoining  house,  which  used  to  be  the  residence 
of  the  Ranger  of  Woodstock  Park,  who  held  charge  of 
the  property  for  the  King  before  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough  possessed  it.  The  keeper  opened  the  door  for 
us,  and  in  the  entrance-hall  we  found  various  things  that 
had  to  do  with  the  chase  and  woodland  sports.  We 
mounted  the  staircase,  through  several  stories,  up  to  the 
top  of  the  tower,  whence  there  was  a  view  of  the  spires 
of  Oxford,  and  of  points  much  farther  off,  —  very  indis 
tinctly  seen,  however,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  the 
misty  distances  of  England.  Returning  to  the  ground- 
floor,  we  were  ushered  into  the  room  in  which  died  Wil- 
mot,  the  wicked  Earl  of  Rochester,  who  was  Ranger  of 
the  Park  in  Charles  II.'s  time.  It  is  a  low  and  bare  little 
room,  with  a  window  in  front,  and  a  smaller  one  behind ; 
and  in  the  contiguous  entrance-room  there  are  the  re 
mains  of  an  old  bedstead,  beneath  the  canopy  of  which, 
perhaps,  Rochester  may  have  made  the  penitent  end  that 
Bishop  Burnet  attributes  to  him.  I  hardly  know  what 
it  is,  in  this  poor  fellow's  character,  which  affects  us  with 
greater  tenderness  on  his  behalf  than  for  all  the  other 
profligates  of  his  day,  who  seem  to  have  been  neither 
better  nor  worse  than  himself.  I  rather  suspect  that  he 


NEAR  OXFORD.  199 

had  a  human  heart  which  never  quite  died  out  of  him, 
and  the  warmth  of  which  is  still  faintly  perceptible  amid 
the  dissolute  trash  which  he  left  behind. 

Methinks,  if  such  good  fortune  ever  befell  a  bookish 
man,  1  should  choose  this  lodge  for  my  own  residence,  with 
the  topmost  room  of  the  tower  for  a  study,  and  all  the  se 
clusion  of  cultivated  wildness  beneath  to  ramble  in.  There 
being  no  such  possibility,  we  drove  on,  catching  glimpsea 
of  the  palace  in  new  points  of  view,  and  by  and  by  came 
to  Rosamond's  Well.  The  particular  tradition  that  con 
nects  Fair  Rosamond  with  it  is  not  now  in  my  memory  ; 
but  if  Rosamond  ever  lived  and  loved,  and  ever  had  her 
abode  in  the  maze  of  Woodstock,  it  may  well  be  believed 
that  she  and  Henry  sometimes  sat  beside  this  spring.  It 
gushes  out  from  a  bank,  through  some  old  stone-work, 
and  dashes  its  little  cascade  (about  as  abundant  as  one 
might  turn  out  of  a  large  pitcher)  into  a  pool,  whence  it 
steals  away  towards  the  lake,  which  is  not  far  removed. 
The  water  is  exceedingly  cold,  and  as  pure  as  the  legen 
dary  Rosamond  was  not,  and  is  fancied  to  possess  medicinal 
virtues,  like  springs  at  which  saints  have  quenched  their 
thirst.  There  were  two  or  three  old  women  and  some 
children  in  attendance  with  tumblers,  which  they  present 
to  visitors,  full  of  the  consecrated  water ;  but  most  of  us 
filled  the  tumblers  for  ourselves,  and  drank. 

Thence  we  drove  to  the  Triumphal  Pillar  which  was 
erected  in  honor  of  the  Great  Duke,  and  on  the  summit 
of  which  he  stands,  in  a  Roman  garb,  holding  a  winged 
figure  of  Victory  in  his  hand,  as  an  ordinary  man  might 
hold  a  bird.  The  column  is  I  know  not  how  many  feet 
high,  but  lofty  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  elevate  Marlbor- 
ough  far  above  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  to  be  visible  a 


200  NEAR  OXFORD. 

long  way  off ;  and  it  is  so  placed  in  reference  to  other  ob 
jects,  that,  wherever  the  hero  wandered  about  his  grounds, 
and  especially  as  he  issued  from  his  mansion,  he  must  in 
evitably  have  been  reminded  of  his  glory.  In  truth,  until 
I  came  to  Blenheim,  I  never  had  so  positive  and  material 
an  idea  of  what  Fame  really  is  —  of  what  the  admiration 
of  his  country  can  do  for  a  successful  warrior  —  as  I  carry 
away  with  me  and  shall  always  retain.  Unless  he  had 
the  moral  force  of  a  thousand  men  together,  his  egotism 
(beholding  himself  everywhere,  imbuing  the  entire  soil, 
growing  in  the  woods,  rippling  and  gleaming  in  the  water, 
and  pervading  the  very  air  with  his  greatness)  must  have 
been  swollen  within  him  like  the  liver  of  a  Strasbourg 
goose.  On  the  huge  tablets  inlaid  into  the  pedestal  of 
the  column,  the  entire  Act  of  Parliament,  bestowing 
Blenheim  on  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  and  his  posterity, 
is  engraved  in  deep  letters,  painted  black  on  the  marble 
ground.  The  pillar  stands  exactly  a  mile  from  the  prin 
cipal  front  of  the  palace,  in  a  straight  line  with  the  pre 
cise  centre  of  its  entrance-hall ;  so  that,  as  already  said, 
it  was  the  Duke's  principal  object  of  contemplation. 

We  now  proceeded  to  the  palace-gate,  which  is  a  great 
pillared  archway,  of  wonderful  loftiness  and  state,  giving 
admittance  into  a  spacious  quadrangle.  A  stout,  elderly, 
and  rather  surly  footman  in  livery  appeared  at  the  cm- 
trance,  and  took  possession  of  whatever  canes,  umbrellas, 
and  parasols  he  could  get  hold  of,  in  order  to  claim  six 
pence  on  our  departure.  This  had  a  somewhat  ludicrous 
effect.  There  is  much  public  outcry  against  the  mean 
ness  of  the  present  Duke  in  his  arrangements  for  the 
admission  of  visitors  (chiefly,  of  course,  his  native  country 
men)  to  view  the  magnificent  palace  which  their  fore- 


NEAR  OXFORD.  201 

fathers  bestowed  upon  his  own.  In  many  cases,  it  seems 
hard  that  a  private  abode  should  be  exposed  to  the  in 
trusion  of  the  public  merely  because  the  proprietor  has 
inherited  or  created  a  splendor  which  attracts  general 
curiosity  ;  insomuch  that  his  home  loses  its  sanctity  and 
seclusion  for  the  very  reason  that  it  is  better  than  other 
men's  houses.  But  in  the  case  of  Blenheim,  the  public 
iiave  certainly  an  equitable  claim  to  admission,  both  be 
cause  the  fame  of  its  first  inhabitant  is  a  national  pos 
session,  and  because  the  mansion  was  a  national  gift,  one 
of  the  purposes  of  which  was  to  be  a  token  of  gratitude 
and  glory  to  the  English  people  themselves.  If  a  man 
chooses  to  be  illustrious,  he  is  very  likely  to  incur  some 
little  inconveniences  himself,  and  entail  them  on  his  pos- 
*erity.  Nevertheless,  his  present  Grace  of  Marlborough 
absolutely  ignores  the  public  claim  above  suggested,  and 
(with  a  thrift  of  which  even  the  hero  of  Blenheim  him 
self  did  not  set  the  example)  sells  tickets  admitting  six 
persons  at  ten  shillings :  if  only  one  person  enters  the 
gate,  he  must  pay  for  six ;  and  if  there  are  seven  in  com 
pany,  two  tickets  are  required  to  admit  them.  The  at 
tendants,  who  meet  you  everywhere  in  the  park  and 
palace,  expect  fees  on  their  own  private  account,  —  their 
noble  master  pocketing  the  ten  shillings.  But,  to  be  sure, 
the  visitor  gets  his  money's  worth,  since  it  buys  him  the 
right  to  speak  just  as  freely  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough 
as  if  he  were  the  keeper  of  the  Cremorne  Gardens.* 

*  The  above  was  written  two  or  three  years  ago,  or  more;  and  the 
Duke  of  that  day  has  since  transmitted  his  coronet  to  his  successor, 
who,  we  understand,  has  adopted  much  more  liberal  arrangements. 
There  is  seldom  anything  to  criticize  or  complain  of,  as  regards  th« 
facility  of  obtaining  admission  to  interesting  private  houses  in  En.pj- 


202  NEAR  OXFORD. 

Passing  through  a  gateway  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
quadrangle,  we  had  before  us  the  noble  classic  front  of 
the  palace,  with  its  two  projecting  wings.  We  ascended 
the  lofty  steps  of  the  portal,  and  were  admitted  into  the 
entrance-hall,  the  height  of  which,  from  floor  to  ceiling,  is 
not  much  less  than  seventy  feet,  being  the  entire  elevation 
of  the  edifice.  The  hall  is  lighted  by  windows  in  the  upper 
story,  and,  it  being  a  clear,  bright  day,  was  very  radiant 
with  lofty  sunshine,  amid  which  a  swallow  was  flitting  to 
and  fro.  The  ceiling  was  painted  by  Sir  James  Thornhill 
in  some  allegorical  design,  (doubtless  commemorative  of 
Marlborough's  victories,)  the  purport  of  which  I  did  not 
take  the  trouble  to  make  out,  —  contenting  myself  with 
the  general  effect,  which  was  most  splendidly  and  effec 
tively  ornamental. 

We  were  guided  through  the  show-rooms  by  a  very 
civil  person,  who  allowed  us  to  take  pretty  much  our  own 
time  in  looking  at  the  pictures.  The  collection  is  exceed 
ingly  valuable,  —  many  of  these  works  of  Art  having 
been  presented  to  the  Great  Duke  by  the  crowned  heads 
of  England  or  the  Continent.  One  room  was  all  aglow 
with  pictures  by  Rubens ;  and  there  were  works  of  Ra 
phael,  and  many  other  famous  painters,  any  one  of  which 
would  be  sufficient  to  illustrate  the  meanest  house  that 
might  contain  it.  I  remember  none  of  them,  however 
(not  being  in  a  picture-seeing  mood,)  so  well  as  Van- 
dyck's  large  and  familiar  picture  of  Charles  I.  on  horse 
back,  with  a  figure  and  face  of  melancholy  dignity  such 
as  never  by  any  other  hand  was  put  on  canvas.  Yet,  on 
considering  this  face  of  Charles  (which  I  find  often  re 
peated  in  half-lengths)  and  translating  it  from  the  ideal 
into  literalism,  T  doubt  whether  the  unfortunate  king  was 


NEAR  OXFORD.  203 

really  a  handsome  or  impressive-looking  man :  a  high 
thin-ridged  nose,  a  meagre,  hatchet  face,  and  reddish  hail 
and  beard,  —  these  are  the  literal  facts.  It  is  the  paint 
er's  art  that  has  thrown  such  pensive  and  shadowy  grace 
around  him. 

On  our  passage  through  this  beautiful  suite  of  apart 
ments,  we  saw,  through  the  vista  of  open  doorways,  a  boy 
of  ten  or  twelve  years  old  coming  towards  us  from  the 
farther  rooms.  He  had  on  a  straw  hat,  a  linen  sack  that 
had  certainly  been  washed  and  re-washed  for  a  summer 
or  two,  and  gray  trousers  a  good  deal  worn,  —  a  dress, 
in  short,  which  an  American  mother  in  middle  station 
would  have  thought  too  shabby  for  her  darling  school 
boy's  ordinary  wear.  This  urchin's  face  was  rather 
pale,  (as  those  of  English  children  are  apt  to  be,  quite  as 
often  as  our  own,)  but  he  had  pleasant  eyes,  an  intelli 
gent  look,  and  an  agreeable,  boyish  manner.  It  was  Lord 
Sunderland,  grandson  of  the  present  Duke,  and  heir  — • 
though  not,  I  think,  in  the  direct  line  —  of  the  blood  of 
the  great  Maryborough,  and  of  the  title  and  estate. 

After  passing  through  the  first  suite  of  rooms,  we  were 
conducted  through  a  corresponding  suite  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  entrance-hall.  These  latter  apartments  are 
most  richly  adorned  with  tapestries,  wrought  and  pre 
sented  to  the  first  Duke  by  a  sisterhood  of  Flemish  nuns 
they  look  like  great,  glowing  pictures,  and  completely 
cover  the  walls  of  the  rooms.  The  designs  purport  to 
represent  the  Duke's  battles  and  sieges  ;  and  everywhere 
we  see  the  hero  himself,  as  large  as  life,  and  as  gorgeous 
in  scarlet  and  gold  as  the  holy  sisters  could  make  him, 
with  a  three-cornered  hat  and  flowing  wig,  reining  in  his 
horse,  and  extending  his  leading-staff  in  the  attitude  of 


204  NEAR  OXFORD. 

command.  Next  to  Marlborough,  Prince  Eugene  is  the 
most  prominent  figure.  In  the  way  of  upholstery,  there 
can  never  have  been  anything  more  magnificent  than 
these  tapestries ;  and,  considered  as  works  of  Art,  they 
have  quite  as  much  merit  as  nine  pictures  out  of  ten. 

One  whole  wing  of  the  palace  is  occupied  by  the 
library,  a  most  noble  room,  with  a  vast  perspective  length 
trom  end  to  end.  Its  atmosphere  is  brighter  and  more 
cheerful  than  that  of  most  libraries :  a  wonderful  contrast 
to  the  old  college-libraries  of  Oxford,  and  perhaps  less 
sombre  and  suggestive  of  thoughtfulness  than  any  large 
library  ought  to  be  ;  inasmuch  as  so  many  studious  brains 
as  have  left  their  deposit  on  the  shelves  cannot  have  con 
spired  without  producing  a  very  serious  and  ponderous 
result.  Both  walls  and  ceiling  are  white,  and  there  arft 
elaborate  doorways  and  fireplaces  of  white  marble.  Th& 
floor  is  of  oak,  so  highly  polished  that  our  feet  slipped 
upon  it  as  if  it  had  been  New-England  ice.  At  one  end 
of  the  room  stands  a  statue  of  Queen  Anne  in  her  royal 
robes,  which  are  so  admirably  designed  and  exquisitely 
wrought  that  the  spectator  certainly  gets  a  strong  concep 
tion  of  her  royal  dignity ;  while  the  face  of  the  statue, 
fleshy  and  feeble,  doubtless  conveys  a  suitable  idea  of  hei 
personal  character.  The  marble  of  this  work,  long  as  it 
has  stood  there,  is  as  white  as  snow  just  fallen,  and  must 
have  required  most  faithful  and  religious  care  to  keep  it 
BO.  As  for  the  volumes  of  the  library,  they  are  wired 
within  the  cases  and  turn  their  gilded  backs  upon  the 
visitor,  keeping  their  treasures  of  wit  and  wisdom  just  as 
intangible  as  if  still  in  the  unwrought  mines  of  human 
thought. 

I  remember  nothing  else  in  the   palace,  except  the 


NEAR  OXFORD.  205 

chapel,  to  which  we  were  conducted  last,  and  where  we 
saw  a  splendid  monument  to  the  first  Duke  and  Duchess, 
sculptured  by  Rysbrach,  at  the  cost,  it  is  said,  of  forty 
thousand  pounds.  The  design  includes  the  statues  of  the 
deceased  dignitaries,  and  various  allegorical  flourishes, 
fantasies,  and  confusions;  and  beneath  sleep  the  great 
Duke  and  his  proud  wife,  their  veritable  bones  and  dust, 
md  probably  all  the  Marlboroughs  that  have  since  died. 
It  is  not  quite  a  comfortable  idea,  that  these  mouldy  an 
cestors  still  inhabit,  after  their  fashion,  the  house  where 
their  successors  spend  the  passing  day ;  but  the  adulation 
lavished  upon  the  hero  of  Blenheim  could  not  have  been 
consummated,  unless  the  palace  of  his  lifetime  had  be 
come  likewise  a  stately  mausoleum  over  his  remains,  — 
and  such  we  felt  it  all  to  be,  after  gazing  at  his  tomb. 

The  next  business  was  to  see  the  private  gardens.  An 
old  Scotch  under-gardener  admitted  us  and  led  the  way, 
and  seemed  to  have  a  fair  prospect  of  earning  the  fee  all 
by  himself;  but  by  and  by  another  respectable  Scotch 
man  made  his  appearance  and  took  us  in  charge,  proving 
to  be  the  head-gardener  in  person.  He  was  extremely 
intelligent  and  agreeable,  talking  both  scientifically  and 
lovingly  about  trees  and  plants,  of  which  there  is  every 
variety  capable  of  English  cultivation.  Positively,  the 
Garden  of  Eden  cannot  have  been  more  beautiful  than  this 
private  garden  of  Blenheim.  It  contains  three  hundred 
acres,  and  by  the  artful  circumlocution  of  the  paths,  and  the 
undulations,  and  the  skilfully  interposed  clumps  of  trees, 
is  made  to  appear  limitless.  The  sylvan  delights  of  a 
whole  country  are  compressed  into  this  space,  as  whole 
fields  of  Persian  roses  go  to  the  concoction  of  an  ounce 
of  precious  attar.  The  world  within  that  garden-fence 


206  NEAR  OXFORD. 

is  riot  the  same  weary  and  dusty  world  with  which  we 
outside  mortals  are  conversant;  it  is  a  finer,  lovelier, 
more  harmonious  Nature  ;  and  the  Great  Mother  lends 
herself  kindly  to  the  gardener's  will,  knowing  that  he 
will  make  evident  the  half-obliterated  traits  of  her  pris 
tine  and  ideal  beauty,  and  allow  her  to  take  all  the  credit 
and  praise  to  herself.  I  doubt  whether  there  is  ever  any 
winter  within  that  precinct,  —  any  clouds,  except  the 
fleecy  ones  of  summer.  The  sunshine  that  I  saw  there 
rests  upon  my  recollection  of  it  as  if  it  were  eternal. 
The  lawns  and  glades  are  like  the  memory  of  places 
where  one  has  wandered  when  first  in  love. 

What  a  good  and  happy  life  might  be  spent  in  a  para 
dise  like  this !  And  yet,  at  that  very  moment,  the  be 
sotted  Duke  (ah!  I  have  let  out  a  secret  which  I  meant 
to  keep  to  myself;  but  the  ten  shillings  must  pay  for  all) 
was  in  that  very  garden,  (for  the  guide  told  us  so,  and 
cautioned  our  young  people  not  to  be  uproarious,)  and, 
if  in  a  condition  for  arithmetic,  was  thinking  of  nothing 
nobler  than  how  many  ten-shilling  tickets  had  that  day 
been  sold.  Republican  as  I  am,  I  should  still  love  to  think 
that  noblemen  lead  noble  lives,  and  that  all  this  stately 
and  beautiful  environment  may  serve  to  elevate  them  a 
little  way  above  the  rest  of  us.  If  it  fail  to  do  so,  the 
disgrace  falls  equally  upon  the  whole  race  of  mortals  as 
on  themselves  ;  because  it  proves  that  no  more  favorable 
conditions  of  existence  would  eradicate  our  vices  and 
weaknesses.  How  sad,  if  this  be  so !  Even  a  herd  of 
swine,  eating  the  acorns  under  those  magnificent  oaks  of 
Blenheim,  would  be  cleanlier  and  of  better  habits  than 
ordinary  swine. 

Well,  all  that  I  have  written  is  pitifully  meagre,  as  a 


NEAR  OXFORD.  207 

description  of  Blenheim  ;  and  I  hate  to  lea  re  it  without 
some  more  adequate  expression  of  the  noble  edifice,  with 
its  rich  domain,  all  as  I  saw  them  in  that  beautiful  sun 
shine  ;  for,  if  a  day  had  been  chosen  out  of  a  hundred 
years,  it  could  not  have  been  a  finer  one.  But  I  must 
give  up  the  attempt ;  only  further  remarking  that  the 
finest  trees  here  were  cedars,  of  which  I  saw  one  —  and 
there  may  have  been  many  such  —  immense  in  girth,  and 
not  less  than  three  centuries  old.  I  likewise  saw  a  vast 
heap  of  laurel,  two  hundred  feet  in  circumference,  all 
growing  from  one  root ;  and  the  gardener  offered  to  show 
us  another  growth  of  twice  that  stupendous  size.  If  the 
Great  Duke  himself  had  been  buried  in  that  spot,  his 
heroic  heart  could  not  have  been  the  seed  of  a  more 
plentiful  crop  of  laurels. 

We  now  went  back  to  the  Black  Bear,  and  sat  down 
to  a  cold  collation,  of  which  we  ate  abundantly,  and  drank 
(in  the  good  old  English  fashion)  a  due  proportion  of 
various  delightful  liquors.  A  stranger  in  England,  in 
his  rambles  to  various  quarters  of  the  country,  may  learn 
little  in  regard  to  wines,  (for  the  ordinary  English  taste 
is  simple,  though  sound,  in  that  particular,)  but  he  makes 
acquaintance  with  more  varieties  of  hop  and  malt  liquor 
than  he  previously  supposed  to  exist.  I  remember  a  sort 
of  foaming  stuff,  called  hop-champagne,  which  is  very 
vivacious,  and  appears  to  be  a  hybrid  between  ale  and 
bottled  cider.  Another  excellent  tipple  for  warm  weather 
is  concocted  by  mixing  brown-stout  or  bitter  ale  with 
ginger-beer,  the  foam  of  which  stirs  up  the  heavier  liquor 
from  its  depths,  forming  a  compound  of  singular  vivacity 
and  sufficient  body.  But  of  all  things  ever  brewed  from 
mail,  (unless  it  be  the  Trinity  Ale  of  Cambridge,  which 


208  NEAR  OXFORD. 

I  drank  long  afterwards,  and  which  Barry  Cornwall  has 
celebrated  in  immortal  verse,)  commend  me  to  the  Arch 
deacon,  as  the  Oxford  scholars  call  it,  in  honor  of  the 
jovial  dignitary  who  first  taught  these  erudite  worthies 
how  to  brew  their  favorite  nectar.  John  Barleycorn  has 
given  his  very  heart  to  this  admirable  liquor ;  it  is  a 
superior  kind  of  ale,  the  Prince  of  Ales,  with  a  richer 
flavor  and  a  mightier  spirit  than  you  can  find  elsewhere 
in  this  weary  world.  Much  have  we  been  strengthened 
and  encouraged  by  the  potent  blood  of  the  Archdeacon 

A  few  days  after  our  excursion  to  Blenheim,  the  same 
party  set  forth,  in  two  flies,  on  a  tour  to  some  other  places 
of  interest  in  the  neighborhood  of  Oxford.     It  was  again 
a  delightful  day ;  and,  in  truth,  every  day,  of  late,  had 
been  so  pleasant  that  it  seemed  as  if  each  must  be  the 
very  last  of  such  perfect  weather ;  and  yet  the  long  suc 
cession  had  given  us  confidence  in  as  many  more  to  come 
The  climate  of  England  has  been  shamefully  maligned 
its  sulkiness  and  asperities  are  not  nearly  so  offensive  a 
Englishmen  tell  us  (their  climate  being  the  only  attribute 
of  their  country  which  they  never  overvalue)  ;  and  tht 
really  good  summer  weather  is   the  very  kindest  and 
sweetest  that  the  world  knows. 

We  first  drove  to  the  village  of  Cumnor,  about  six 
miles  from  Oxford,  and  alighted  at  the  entrance  of  thft 
church.  Here,  while  waiting  for  the  keys,  we  looked  at 
an  old  wall  of  the  churchyard,  piled  up  of  loose  gray 
stones  which  are  said  to  have  once  formed  a  portion  of 
Cumnor  Hall,  celebrated  in  Mickle's  ballad  and  Scott's 
romance.  The  hall  must  have  been  in  very  close  vicinity 
to  the  church,  —  not  more  than  twenty  yards  off;  and  I 
waded  through  the  long,  dewy  grass  of  the  churchyard, 


NEAR  OXFORD.  209 

and  tried  to  peep  over  the  wall,  in  hopes  to  discover  some 
tangible  and  traceable  remains  of  the  edifice.  But  the 
wall  was  just  too  high  to  be  overlooked,  and  difficult  to 
clamber  over  without  tumbling  down  some  of  the  stones  ; 
so  I  took  the  word  of  one  of  our  party,  who  had  been 
here  before,  that  there  is  nothing  interesting  on  the  other 
side.  The  churchyard  is  in  rather  a  neglected  state,  and 
seems  not  to  have  been  mown  for  the  benefit  of  the  par 
son's  cow  ;  it  contains  a  good  many  gravestones,  of  which 
I  remember  only  some  upright  memorials  of  slate  to  in 
dividuals  of  the  name  of  Tabbs. 

Soon  a  woman  arrived  with  the  key  of  the  church- 
door,  and  we  entered  the  simple  old  edifice,  which  has 
the  pavement  of  lettered  tombstones,  the  sturdy  pillars 
and  low  arches,  and  other  ordinary  characteristics  of  an 
English  country  church.  One  or  two  pews,  probably 
those  of  the  gentlefolk  of  the  neighborhood,  were  better 
furnished  than  the  rest,  but  all  in  a  modest  style.  Near 
the  high  altar,  in  the  holiest  place,  there  is  an  oblong, 
angular,  ponderous  tomb  of  blue  marble,  built  against  the 
wall,  and  surmounted  by  a  carved  canopy  of  the  same 
material ;  and  over  the  tomb,  and  beneath  the  canopy, 
are  two  monumental  brasses,  such  as  we  oftener  see  in 
laid  into  a  church  pavement.  On  these  brasses  are  en 
graved  the  figures  of  a  gentleman  in  armor  and  a  lady  in 
an  antique  garb,  each  about  a  foot  high,  devoutly  kneeling 
in  prayer ;  and  there  is  a  long  Latin  inscription  likewise 
cut  into  the  enduring  brass,  bestowing  the  highest  eulo 
gies  on  the  character  of  Anthony  Forster,  who,  with  his 
virtuous  dame,  lies  buried  beneath  this  tombstone.  His 
is  the  knightl}  figure  that  kneels  above  ;  and  if  Sir  Wal 
ter  Scott  ever  saw  this  tomb,  he  must  have  had  an  even 

14 


210  NEAR  OXFORD. 

greater  than  common  disbelief  in  laudatory  epitaphs,  to 
venture  on  depicting  Anthony  Forster  in  such  hues  as 
blacken  him  in  the  romance.  For  my  part,  I  read  the 
inscription  in  full  faith,  and  believe  the  poor  deceased 
gentleman  to  be  a  much-wronged  individual,  with  good 
grounds  for  bringing  an  action  of  slander  in  the  courts 
above. 

But  the  circumstance,  lightly  as  we  treat  it,  has  its 
serious  moral.  What  nonsense  it  is,  this  anxiety,  which 
so  worries  us,  about  our  good  fame,  or  our  bad  fame,  after 
death!  If  it  were  of  the  slightest  real  moment,  our 
reputations  would  have  been  placed  by  Providence  more 
in  our  own  power,  and  less  in  other  people's,  than  we  now 
find  them  to  be.  If  poor  Anthony  Forster  happens  to 
have  met  Sir  Walter  in  the  other  world,  I  doubt  whether 
he  has  ever  thought  it  worth  while  to  complain  of  the 
latter's  misrepresentations. 

We  did  not  remain  long  in  the  church,  as  it  contains 
nothing  else  of  interest ;  and  driving  through  the  village, 
we  passed  a  pretty  large  and  rather  antique-looking  inn, 
bearing  the  sign  of  the  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff.  It  could 
not  be  so  old,  however,  by  at  least  a  hundred  years,  as 
Giles  Gosling's  time  ;  nor  is  there  any  other  object  to 
remind  the  visitor  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  unless  it  be 
a  few  ancient  cottages,  that  are  perhaps  of  still  earlier 
date.  Cumnor  is  not  nearly  so  large  a  village,  nor  a 
place  of  such  mark,  as  one  anticipates  from  its  romantic 
and  legendary  fame  ;  but,  being  still  inaccessible  by  rail 
way,  it  has  retained  more  of  a  sylvan  character  than  we 
often  find  in  English  country  towns.  In  this  retired 
neighborhood  the  road  is  narrow  and  bordered  with  grass, 
and  sometimes  interrupted  by  gates  ;  the  hedges  grow  in 


NEAR  OXFORD.  2il 

unpruned  luxuriance  ;  there  is  not  that  close-shaven  neat 
ness  and  trimness  that  characterize  the  ordinary  English 
landscape.  The  whole  scene  conveys  the  idea  of  seclu 
sion  and  remoteness.  We  met  no  travellers,  whether 
on  foot  or  otherwise. 

I  cannot  very  distinctly  trace  out  this  day's  peregrina 
tions  ;  but,  after  leaving  Cumnor  a  few  miles  behind  us 
I  think  we  came  to  a  ferry  over  the  Thames,  where  an 
old  woman  served  as  ferryman,  and  pulled  a  boat  across 
by  means  of  a  rope  stretching  from  shore  to  shore.  Our 
two  vehicles  being  thus  placed  on  the  other  side,  we  re 
sumed  our  drive,  —  first  glancing,  however,  at  the  old 
woman's  antique  cottage,  with  its  stone  floor,  and  the  cir 
cular  settle  round  the  kitchen  fireplace,  which  was  quite 
in  the  mediaeval  English  style. 

We  next  stopped  at  Stanton  Harcourt,  where  we  were 
received  at  the  parsonage  with  a  hospitality  which  we 
should  take  delight  in  describing,  if  it  were  allowable  to 
make  public  acknowledgment  of  the  private  and  personal 
kindnesses  which  we  never  failed  to  find  ready  for  our 
needs.  An  American  in  an  English  house  will  soon  adopt 
the  opinion  that  the  English  are  the  very  kindest  people 
on  earth,  and  will  retain  that  idea  as  long,  at  least,  as  he 
remains  on  the  inner  side  of  the  threshold.  Their  mag 
netism  is  of  a  kind  that  repels  strongly  while  you  keep 
beyond  a  certain  limit,  but  attracts  as  forcibly  if  you  get 
within  the  magic  line. 

It  was  at  this  place,  if  I  remember  right,  that  I  heard 
a  gentleman  ask  a  friend  of  mine  whether  he  was  the 
author  of  "  The  Red  Letter  A " ;  and,  after  some  con 
sideration,  (for  he  did  not  seem  to  recognize  his  own 
book,  at  first,  under  this  improved  title,)  our  countryman 


212  NEAR  OXFORD. 

responded,  doubtfully,  that  he  believed  so.  The  gentle 
man  proceeded  to  inquire  whether  our  friend  had  spent 
much  time  in  America,  —  evidently  thinking  that  he 
must  have  been  caught  young,  and  have  had  a  tincture 
of  English  breeding,  at  least,  if  not  birth,  to  speak  the 
language  so  tolerably,  and  appear  so  much  like  other 
people.  This  insular  narrowness  is  exceedingly  queer, 
and  of  very  frequent  occurrence,  and  is  quite  as  much 
a  characteristic  of  men  of  education  and  culture  as  of 
clowns. 

Stan  ton  Harcourt  is  a  very  curious  old  place.  It  was 
formerly  the  seat  of  the  ancient  family  of  Harcourt,  which 
now  has  its  principal  abode  at  Nuneham  Courtney,  a  few 
miles  off.  The  parsonage  is  a  relic  of  the  family  man 
sion,  or  castle,  other  portions  of  which  are  close  at  hand ; 
for,  across  the  garden,  rise  two  gray  towers,  both  of  them 
picturesquely  venerable,  and  interesting  for  more  than 
their  antiquity.  One  of  these  towers,  in  its  entire  capa 
city,  from  height  to  depth,  constituted  the  kitchen  of  the 
ancient  castle,  and  is  still  used  for  domestic  purposes, 
although  it  has  not,  nor  ever  had,  a  chimney  ;  or  we 
ight  rather  say,  it  is  itself  one  vast  chimney,  with  a 
hearth  of  thirty  feet  square,  and  a  flue  and  aperture  of 
the  same  size.  There  are  two  huge  fireplaces  within, 
and  the  interior  walls  of  the  tower  are  blackened  with 
the  smoke  that  for  centuries  used  to  gush  forth  from  them 
and  climb  upward,  seeking  an  exit  through  some  wide 
air-holes  in  the  conical  roof,  full  seventy  feet  above. 
These  lofty  openings  were  capable  of  being  so  arranged, 
with  reference  to  the  wind,  that  the  cooks  are  said  to  have 
been  seldom  troubled  by  the  smoke  ;  and  here,  no  d  Dubt, 
they  were  accustomed  to  roast  oxen  whole,  with  as  little 


NEAR   OXFORD.  213 

fuss  and  ado  as  a  modern  cook  would  roast  a  fowl.  The 
inside  of  the  tower  is  very  dim  and  sombre,  (being  noth 
ing  but  rough  stone  walls,  lighted  only  from  the  apertures 
above  mentioned,)  and  has  still  a  pungent  odor  of  smoke 
and  soot,  the  reminiscence  of  the  fires  and  feasts  of  gen 
erations  that  have  passed  away.  Methinks  the  extremest 
ange  of  domestic  economy  lies  between  an  American 
jiooking-stove  and  the  ancient,  kitchen,  seventy  dizzy  feet 
in  height,  and  all  one  fireplace,  of  Stanton  Harcourt. 

Now  —  the  place  being  without  a  parallel  in  England, 
and  therefore  necessarily  beyond  the  experience  of  an 
American  —  it  is  somewhat  remarkable,  that,  while  we 
stood  gazing  at  this  kitchen,  I  was  haunted  and  perplexed 
by  an  idea  that  somewhere  or  other  I  had  seen  just  this 
strange  spectacle  before.  The  height,  the  blackness,  the 
dismal  void,  before  my  eyes,  seemed  as  familiar  as  the 
decorous  neatness  of  my  grandmother's  kitchen  ;  only  my 
unaccountable  memory  of  the  scene  was  lighted  up  with 
an  image  of  lurid  fires  blazing  all  round  the  dim  interior 
circuit  of  the  tower.  I  had  never  before  had  so  per 
tinacious  an  attack,  as  I  could  not  but  suppose  it,  of  that 
odd  state  of  mind  wherein  we  fitfully  and  teasingly  re 
member  some  previous  scene  or  incident,  of  which  the 
one  now  passing  appears  to  be  but  the  echo  and  redupli 
cation.  Though  the  explanation  of  the  mystery  did  not 
for  some  time  occur  to  me,  I  may  as  well  conclude  the 
matter  here.  In  a  letter  of  Pope's,  addressed  to  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham,  there  is  an  account  of  Stanton  Harcourt, 
(as  I  now  find,  although  the  name  is  not  mentioned,) 
where  he  resided  while  translating  a  part  of  the  "  Iliad." 
It  is  one  of  the  most  admirable  pieces  of  description 
in  the  language,  —  playful  and  picturesque,  with  fine 


214  NEAR  OXFORD. 

4 

touches  of  humorous  pathos,  —  and  conveys  as  perfect  a 
picture  as  ever  was  drawn  of  a  decayed  English  country 
house ;  and  among  other  rooms,  most  of  which  have  since 
crumbled  down  and  disappeared,  he  dashes  off  the  grim 
aspect  of  this  kitchen,  —  which,  moreover,  he  peoples  with 
witches,  engaging  Satan  himself  as  head-cook,  who  stirs 
the  infernal  caldrons  that  seethe  and  bubble  over  the 
fires.  This  letter,  and  others  relative  to  his  abode  hore, 
were  very  familiar  to  my  earlier  reading,  and,  remaining 
still  fresh  at  the  bottom  of  my  memcry,  caused  the  weird 
and  ghostly  sensation  that  came  over  me  on  beholding  the 
real  spectacle  that  had  formerly  be»n  made  so  vivid  to 
iny  imagination. 

Our  next  visit  was  to  the  church .  which  stands  close 
by,  and  is  quite  as  ancient  as  the  remiants  of  the  castle. 
In  a  chapel  or  side-aisle,  dedicated  to  the  Harcourts,  are 
found  some  very  interesting  family  monuments,  —  and 
among  them,  recumbent  on  a  tombstone,  the  figure  of  an 
armed  knight  of  the  Lancastrian  party,  who  was  slain  in 
the  Wars  of  the  Roses.  His  features,  dress,  and  armor 
are  painted  in  colors,  still  wonderfully  frosh,  and  there 
still  blushes  the  symbol  of  the  Red  Rose,  denoting  the 
faction  for  which  he  fought  and  died.  His  be?d  restr  on 
a  marble  or  alabaster  helmet ;  and  on  the  tomb  lies  th<3 
veritable  helmet,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  which  he  wore  i*» 
battle,  —  a  ponderous  iron  case,  with  the  visor  complete, 
and  remnants  of  the  gilding  that  once  covered  it.  The 
west  is  a  large  peacock,  not  of  metal,  but  of  wood. 
Very  possibly,  this  helmet  was  but  an  heraldic  adorn 
ment  of  his  tomb ;  and,  indeed,  it  seems  strange  that  it 
has  not  been  stolen  before  now,  especially  in  Cromwell's 
time,  when  knightly  tombs  were  little  respected,  arid 


NEAR  OXFORD.  215 

when  armor  was  in  request.  However,  it  is  needless  to 
dispute  with  the  dead  knight  about  the  identity  of  his 
iron  pot,  and  we  may  as  well  allow  it  to  be  the  very  same 
that  so  often  gave  him  the  headache  in  his  lifetime 
Leaning  against  the  wall,  at  the  foot  of  the  tomb,  is  the 
shaft  of  a  spear,  with  a  wofully  tattered  and  utterly  faded 
banner  appended  to  it,  —  the  knightly  banner  beneath 
which  he  marshalled  his  followers  in  the  field.  As  it 
was  absolutely  falling  to  pieces,  I  tore  off  one  little  bit, 
no  bigger  than  a  finger-nail,  and  put  it  into  my  waistcoat- 
pocket;  but  seeking  it  subsequently,  it  was  not  to  bo 
found. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  little  chapel,  two  or  threo 
yards  from  this  tomb,  is  another  monument,  on  which  lie, 
side  by  side,  one  of  the  same  knightly  race  of  Harcourts, 
and  his  lady.  The  tradition  of  the  family  is,  that  this 
knight  was  the  standard-bearer  of  Henry  of  Richmond 
in  the  Battle  of  Bosworth  Field ;  and  a  banner,  sup 
posed  to  be  the  same  that  he  carried,  now  droops  over 
his  effigy.  It  is  just  such  a  colorless  silk  rag  as  the  one 
already  described.  The  knight  has  the  order  of  the 
Garter  on  his  knee,  and  the  lady  wears  it  on  her  left 
arm,  —  an  odd  place  enough  for  a  garter ;  but,  if  worn 
in  its  proper  locality,  it  could  not  be  decorously  visible. 
The  complete  preservation  and  good  condition  of  these 
Btatues,  even  to  the  minutest  adornment  of  the  sculpture, 
and  their  very  noses,  —  the  most  vulnerable  part  of  a 
marble  man,  as  of  a  living  one,  —  are  miraculous.  Ex 
cept  in  Westminster  Abbey,  among  the  chapels  of  the 
kings,  I  have  seen  none  so  well  preserved.  Perhaps 
they  owe  it  to  the  loyalty  of  Oxfordshire,  diffused 
throughout  its  neighborhood  by  the  influence  of  the 


216  NEAR  OXFORD. 

University,  during  the  great  Civil  War  and  the  rule  of 
the  Parliament.  It  speaks  well,  too,  for  the  upright  and 
kindly  character  of  this  old  family,  that  the  peasantry, 
among  whom  they  had  lived  for  ages,  did  not  desecrate 
their  tombs,  when  it  might  have  been  done  with  im 
punity. 

There  are  other  and  more  recent  memorials  of  the 
Harcourts,  one  of  which  is  the  tomb  of  the  last  lord, 
who  died  about  a  hundred  years  ago.  His  figure,  like 
those  of  his  ancestors,  lies  on  the  top  of  his  tomb,  clad, 
not  in  armor,  but  in  his  robes  as  a  peer.  The  title  is 
now  extinct,  but  the  family  survives  in  a  younger  branch, 
and  still  holds  this  patrimonial  estate,  though  they  hav^ 
long  since  quitted  it  as  a  residence. 

We  next  went  to  see  the  ancient  fish-ponds  appertain 
ing  to  the  mansion,  and  which  used  to  be  of  vast  dietary 
importance  to  the  family  in  Catholic  times,  and  when 
fish  was  not  otherwise  attainable.  There  are  two  or 
three,  or  more,  of  these  reservoirs,  one  of  \vhich  is  of 
very  respectable  size,  —  large  enough,  indeed,  to  be  really 
a  picturesque  object,  with  its  grass-green  borders,  and  the 
trees  drooping  over  it,  and  the  towers  of  the  castle  and 
the  church  reflected  within  the  weed-grown  depths  of  its 
smooth  mirror.  A  sweet  fragrance,  as  it  were,  of  ancient 
time  and  present  quiet  and  seclusion  was  breathing  all 
around  ;  the  sunshine  of  to-day  had  a  mellow  charm  of 
antiquity  in  its  brightness.  These  ponds  are  said  still  to 
breed  abundance  of  such  fish  as  love  deep  and  quiet 
waters  :  but  I  saw  only  some  minnows,  and  one  or  two 
snakes,  which  \vere  lying  among  the  weeds  on  the  top  of 
the  water,  sunning  and  bathing  themselves  at  once. 

I  mentioned  that  there  were  two  towers  remaining  of 


NEAR  OXFORD.  217 

the  old  castle :  the  one  containing  the  kitchen  we  have 
already  visited ;  the  other,  still  more  interesting,  is  next 
to  be  described.  It  is  some  seventy  feet  high,  gray  and 
reverend,  but  in  excellent  repair,  thougli  I  could  not 
perceive  that  anything  had  been  done  to  renovate  it 
The  basement  story  was  once  the  family  chapel,  and  is, 
of  course,  still  a  consecrated  spot.  At  one  corner  of  tho 
tower  is  a  circular  turret,  within  which  a  narrow  stair 
case,  with  worn  steps  of  stone,  winds  round  and  round  as 
ft  climbs  upward,  giving  access  to  a  chamber  on  each 
floor,  and  finally  emerging  on  the  battlemented  roof. 
Ascending  this  turret-stair,  and  arriving  at  the  third 
story,  we  entered  a  chamber,  not  large,  though  occupy 
ing  the  whole  area  of  the  tower,  and  lighted  by  a  win 
dow  on  each  side.  It  was  wainscoted  from  floor  to  ceil 
ing  with  dark  oak,  and  had  a  little  fireplace  in  one  of  the 
corners.  The  window-panes  were  small  and  set  in  lead. 
The  curiosity  of  this  room  is,  that  it  was  once  the  resi 
dence  of  Pope,  and  that  he  here  wrote  a  considerable  part 
of  the  translation  of  Homer,  and  likewise,  no  doubt,  tho 
admirable  letters  to  which  I  have  referred  above.  The 
room  once  contained  a  record  by  himself,  scratched  with 
a  diamond  on  one  of  the  window-panes,  (since  removed 
for  safekeeping  to  Nuneham  Courtney,  where  it  was 
shown  me,)  purporting  that  he  had  here  finished  the 
fifth  book  of  the  "  Iliad "  on  such  a  day. 

A  poet  has  a  fragrance  about  him,  such  as  no  other 
human  being  is  gifted  withal ;  it  is  indestructible,  and 
clings  forevermore  to  everything  that  he  has  touched.  I 
was  not  impressed,  at  Blenheim,  with  any  sense  that  the 
mighty  Duke  still  haunted  the  palace  that  was  created  for 
him  -,  but  here,  after  a  century  and  a  half,  we  are  still  con- 


218  NEAR  OXFORD. 

scions  of  the  presence  of  that  decrepit  little  figure  of  Queen 
Anne's  time,  although  he  was  merely  a  casual  guest  in 
the  old  tower,  during  one  or  two  summer  months.  How 
ever  brief  the  time  and  slight  the  connection,  his  spirit 
cannot  be  exorcised  so  long  as  the  tower  stands.  In  my 
mind,  moreover,  Pope,  or  any  other  person  with  an  avail 
able  claim,  is  right  in  adhering  to  the  spot,  dead  or  alive 
for  I  never  saw  a  chamber  that  I  should  like  better  to 
inhabit,  —  so  comfortably  small,  in  such  a  safe  and  .inac 
cessible  seclusion,  and  with  a  varied  landscape  from  each 
window.  One  of  them  looks  upon  the  church,  close  at 
hand,  and  down  into  the  green  churchyard,  extending 
almost  to  the  foot  of  the  tower ;  the  others  have  views 
wide  and  far,  over  a  gently  undulating  tract  of  country. 
If  desirous  of  a  loftier  elevation,  about  a  dozen  more 
steps  of  the  turret-stair  will  bring  the  occupant  to  the 
summit  of  the  tower,  —  where  Pope  used  to  come,  no 
doubt,  in  the  summer  evenings,  and  peep  —  poor  little 
shrimp  that  he  was !  —  through  the  embrasures  of  the 
battlement. 

From  Stanton  Harcourt  we  drove  —  I  forget  how  far 
—  to  a  point  where  a  boat  was  waiting  for  us  upon  the 
Thames,  or  some  other  stream ;  for  I  am  ashamed  to  con 
fess  my  ignorance  of  the  precise  geographical  wherea 
bout.  We  were,  at  any  rate,  some  miles  above  Oxford, 
and,  I  should  imagine,  pretty  near  one  of  the  sources  of 
England's  mighty  river.  It  was  little  more  than  wide 
enough  for  the  boat,  with  extended  oars,  to  pass,  —  shal 
low,  too,  and  bordered  with  bulrushes  and  water-weeds, 
which,  in  some  places,  quite  overgrew  the  surface  of  the 
river  from  bank  to  bank.  The  shores  were  flat  and 
meadow-like,  and  sometimes,  the  boatman  told  us,  are 


NEAR  OXFORD.  219 

ovtrflcwed  by  the  rise  of  the  stream.  The  water  looked 
clean  aiid  pure,  but  not  particularly  transparent,  though 
enough  so  to  show  us  that  the  bottom  is  very  much  weed- 
grown  ;  and  I  was  told  that  the  weed  is  an  American 
production,  brought  to  England  with  importations  of 
timber,  and  now  threatening  to  choke  up  the  Thames 
and  other  English  rivers.  1  wonder  it  does  not  try  its 
obstructive  powers  upon  the  Merrimack,  the  Connecticut, 
or  the  Hudson,  —  not  to  speak  of  the  St.  Lawrence  or 
the  Mississippi ! 

It  was  an  open  boat,  with  cushioned  seats  astern,  com 
fortably  accommodating  our  party;  the  day  continued 
sunny  and  warm,  and  perfectly  still ;  the  boatman,  well 
trained  to  his  business,  managed  the  oars  skilfully  and 
vigorously ;  and  we  went  down  the  stream  quite  as  swiftly 
as  it  was  desirable  to  go,  the  scene  being  so  pleasant,  and 
the  passing  hours  so  thoroughly  agreeable.  The  river 
grew  a  little  wider  and  deeper,  perhaps,  as  we  glided  on, 
but  was  still  an  inconsiderable  stream  :  for  it  had  a 
good  deal  more  than  a  hundred  miles  to  meander  through 
before  it  should  bear  fleets  on  its  bosom,  aid  reflect  pal 
aces  and  towers  and  Parliament  houses  and  dingy  and 
sordid  piles  of  various  structure,  as  it  rolled  to  and  fro 
with  the  tide,  dividing  London  asunder.  Not,  in  truth, 
that  I  ever  saw  any  edifice  whatever  reflected  in  its  tur 
bid  breast,  when  the  sylvan  stream,  as  we  beheld  it  now 
is  swollen  into  the  Thames  at  London. 

Once,  on  our  voyage,  we  had  to  land,  while  the  boat^ 
man  and  some  other  persons  drew  our  skiff  round  some 
rapids,  which  we  could  not  otherwise  have  passed ;  an 
other  time,  the  boat  went  through  a  lock.  We,  mean 
while,  stepped  ashore  to  examine  the  ruins  of  the  old 


220  NEAR  OXFORD. 

nunnery  of  Godstowe,  where  Fair  Rosamond  seoluded 
herself,  after  being  separated  from  her  royal  lover  There 
is  a  long  line  of  ruinous  wall,  and  a  shattered  tower  at 
one  of  the  angles  ;  the  whole  much  ivy-grown,  —  brim 
ming  over,  indeed,  with  clustering  ivy,  which  is  rooted 
inside  of  the  walls.  The  nunnery  is  now,  I  believe,  held 
in  lease  by  the  city  of  Oxford,  which  has  converted  its 
precincts  into  a  barnyard.  The  gate  was  under  lock  and 
key,  so  that  we  could  merely  look  at  the  outside,  and 
soon  resumed  our  places  in  the  boat. 

At  three  o'clock,  or  thereabouts,  (or  sooner  or  later,  — 
for  I  took  little  heed  of  time,  and  only  wished  that  these 
delightful  wanderings  might  last  forever,)  we  reached 
Folly  Bridge,  at  Oxford.  Here  we  took  possession  of  a 
spacious  barge,  with  a  house  in  it,  and  a  comfortable 
dining-room  or  drawing-room  within  the  house,  and  a 
level  roof,  on  which  we  could  sit  at  ease,  or  dance,  if  so 
inclined.  These  barges  are  common  at  Oxford,  —  some 
very  splendid  ones  being  owned  by  the  students  of  the 
different  colleges,  or  by  clubs.  They  are  drawn  by 
horses,  like  canal-boats  ;  and  a  horse  being  attached  to 
our  own  barge,  he  trotted  off  at  a  reasonable  pace,  and 
we  slipped  through  the  water  behind  him,  with  a  gentle 
and  pleasant  motion,  which,  save  for  the  constant  vicissi 
tude  of  cultivated  scenery,  was  like  no  motion  at  all.  It 
was  life  without  the  trouble  of  living  ;  nothing  was  ever 
more  quietly  agreeable.  In  this  happy  state  of  mind 
and  body  we  gazed  at  Christ-Church  meadows,  as  we 
passed,  and  at  the  receding  spires  and  towers  of  Oxford, 
and  on  a  good  deal  of  pleasant  variety  along  the  banks: 
young  men  rowing  or  fishing ;  troops  of  naked  boys 
bathing,  as  if  this  were  Arcadia,  in  the  simplicity  of  the 


NEAR  OXFORD.  221 

Golden  Age ;  country  houses,  cottages,  water-side  inns, 
all  with  something  fresh  about  them,  as  not  being  sprin 
kled  with  the  dust  of  the  highway.  We  were  a  large, 
party  now  ;  for  a  number  of  additional  guests  had  joined 
us  at  Folly  Bridge,  and  we  comprised  poets,  novelists, 
scholars,  sculptors,  painters,  architects,  men  and  women 
of  renown,  dear  friends,  genial,  outspoken,  open-hearted 
Englishmen,  —  all  voyaging  onward  together,  like  tho 
wise  ones  of  Gotham  in  a  bowl.  I  remember  not  a  sin 
gle  annoyance,  except,  indeed,  that  a  swarm  of  wasps 
came  aboard  of  us  and  alighted  on  the  head  of  one  of 
our  young  gentlemen,  attracted  by  the  scent  of  the  po 
matum  which  he  had  been  rubbing  into  his  hair.  He 
was  the  only  victim,  and  his  small  trouble  the  one  little 
flaw  in  our  day's  felicity,  to  put  us  in  mind  that  we  were 
mortal. 

Meanwhile  a  table  had  been  laid  in  the  interior  of  our 
barge,  and  spread  with  cold  ham,  cold  fowl,  cold  pigeon- 
pie,  cold  beef,  and  other  substantial  cheer,  such  as  the 
English  love,  and  Yankees  too,  —  besides  tarts,  and  cakes, 
and  pears,  and  plums,  —  not  forgetting,  of  course,  a 
goodly  provision  of  port,  sherry,  and  champagne,  and 
bitter  ale,  which  is  like  mother's  milk  to  an  Englishman, 
and  soon  grows  equally  acceptable  to  his  American 
cousin.  By  the  time  these  matters  had  been  properly 
attended  to,  we  had  arrived  at  that  part  of  the  Thames 
which  passes  by  Nuneham  Courtney,  a  fine  estate  be 
longing  to  the  Harcourts,  and  the  present  residence  of 
the  family.  Here  we  landed,  and,  climbing  a  steep  slope 
from  the  riverside,  paused  a  moment  or  two  to  look  at 
an  architectural  object,  called  the  Carfax,  the  purport  of 
which  I  do  not  well  understand.  Thence  we  proceeded 


222  NEAR  OXFORD. 

onward,  through  the  loveliest  park  and  woodland  scenery 
I  ever  saw,  and  under  as  beautiful  a  declining  sunshine 
as  heaven  ever  shed  over  earth,  to  the  stately  mansion- 
house. 

As  we  here  cross  a  private  threshold,  it  is  not  alloAv- 
able  to  pursue  my  feeble  narrative  of  this  delightful  day 
with  the  same  freedom  as  heretofore  ;  so,  perhaps,  I  may 
as  well  bring  it  to  a  close.  I  may  mention,  however, 
that  I  saw  the  library,  a  fine,  large  apartment,  hung 
round  with  portraits  of  eminent  literary  men,  principally 
of  the  last  century,  most  of  whom  were  familiar  guests 
of  the  Harcourts.  The  house  itself  is  about  eighty  years 
old,  and  is  built  in  the  classic  style,  as  if  the  family  had 
been  anxious  to  diverge  as  far  as  possible  from  the  Gothic 
picturesqueness  of  their  old  abode  at  Stanton  Harcourt. 
The  grounds  were  laid  out  in  part  by  Capability  Brown, 
and  seemed  to  me  even  more  beautiful  than  those  of 
Blenheim.  Mason  the  poet,  a  friend  of  the  house,  gave 
the  design  of  a  portion  of  the  garden.  Of  the  whole 
place  I  will  not  be  niggardly  of  my  rude  Transatlantic 
praise,  but  be  bold  to  say  that  it  appeared  to  me  as  per 
fect  as  anything  earthly  can  be,  —  utterly  and  entirely 
finished,  as  if  the  years  and  generations  had  done  all  that 
the  hearts  and  minds  of  the  successive  owners  could  con 
trive  for  a  spot  they  dearly  loved.  Such  homes  as  Nune- 
ham  Courtney  are  among  the  splendid  results  of  long 
hereditary  possession  ;  and  we  Republicans,  whose  house 
holds  melt  away  like  new-fallen  snow  in  a  spring  morn 
ing,  must  content  ourselves  with  our  many  counterbalan 
cing  advantages,  —  for  this  one,  so  apparently  desirable  to 
the  far-projecting  selfishness  of  our  nature,  we  are  certain 
never  to  attain. 


NEAR  OXFORD.  223 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  nevertheless,  that  Nuneham 
Courtney  is  one  of  the  great  show-places  of  England. 
It  is  merely  a  fair  specimen  of  the  better  class  of  country- 
seats,  and  has  a  hundred  rivals,  and  many  superiors,  in 
the  features  of  beauty,  and  expansive,  manifold,  redun 
dant  comfort,  which  most  impressed  me.  A  moderate 
man  might  be  content  with  such  a  home,  —  that  is  all. 

And  now  I  take  leave  of  Oxford  without  even  ao 
attempt  to  describe  it,  —  there  being  no  literary  faculty, 
attainable  or  conceivable  by  me,  which  can  avail  to  put 
it  adequately,  or  even  tolerably,  upon  paper.  It  must 
remain  its  own  sole  expression  ;  and  those  whose  sad  for 
tune  it  may  be  never  to  behold  it  have  no  better  resource 
than  to  dream  about  gray,  weather-stained,  ivy-grown 
edifices,  wrought  with  quaint  Gothic  ornament,  and  stand 
ing  around  grassy  quadrangles,  where  cloistered  walks 
liave  echoed  to  the  quiet  footsteps  of  twenty  generations, 
• —  lawns  and  gardens  of  luxurious  repose,  shadowed  with 
canopies  of  foliage,  and  lit  up  with  sunny  glimpses 
through  archways  of  great  boughs,  —  spires,  towers,  and 
turrets,  each  with  its  history  and  legend,  —  dimly  mag- 
wificent  chapels,  with  painted  windows  of  rare  beauty  and 
brilliantly  diversified  hues,  creating  an  atmosphere  of 
richest  gloom,  —  vast  college-halls,  high-windowed,  oaken- 
panelled,  and  hung  round  with  portraits  of  the  men,  in 
every  age,  whom  the  University  has  nurtured  to  be 
illustrious,  —  long  vistas  of  alcoved  libraries,  where  the 
wisdom  and  learned  folly  of  all  time  is  shelved,  —  kitch 
ens,  (we  throw  in  this  feature  by  way  of  ballast,  and 
because  it  would  not  be  English  Oxford  without  its  beef 
and  beer,)  with  huge  fireplaces,  capable  of  roasting  a 
hundred  joints  at  once,  —  and  cavernous  cellars,  where 


224  NEAR  OXFORD. 

rows  of  piled-up  hogsheads  seethe  and  fume  with  that 
mighty  malt-liquor  which  is  the  true  milk  of  Alma  Ma 
ter  :  make  all  these  things  vivid  in  your  dream,  and  you 
will  never  know  nor  believe  how  inadequate  is  the  result 
to  represent  even  the  merest  outside  of  Oxford. 

We  feel  a  genuine  reluctance  to  conclude  this  article 
without  making  our  grateful  acknowledgments,  by  name, 
to  a  gentleman  whose  overflowing  kindness  was  the  main 
condition  of  all  our  sight-seeings  and  enjoyments.  De 
lightful  as  will  always  be  our  recollection  of  Oxford  and 
its  neighborhood,  we  partly  suspect  that  it  owes  much  of 
its  happy  coloring  to  the  genial  medium  through  which 
the  objects  were  presented  to  us,  —  to  the  kindly  magic 
of  a  hospitality  unsurpassed,  within  our  experience,  in 
the  quality  of  making  the  guest  contented  with  his  host, 
with  himself,  and  everything  about  him.  He  has  insep 
arably  mingled  his  image  with  our  remembrance  of  the 
Spires  of  Oxford. 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS, 

WE  left  Carlisle  at  a  little  past  eleven,  and  within  the 
half-hour  were  at  Gretna  Green.  Thence  we  rushed 
onward  into  Scotland  through  a  flat  and  dreary  tract  of 
country,  consisting  mainly  of  desert  and  bog,  where  prob 
ably  the  moss-troopers  were  accustomed  to  take  refuge 
after  their  raids  into  England.  Anon,  however,  the 
hills  hove  themselves  up  to  view,  occasionally  attaining 
a  height  which  might  almost  be  called  mountainous.  In 
about  two  hours  we  reached  Dumfries,  and  alighted  at 
the  station  there. 

Chill  as  the  Scottish  summer  is  reputed  to  be,  we 
found  it  an  awfully  hot  day,  not  a  whit  less  so  than  the 
day  before  ;  but  we  sturdily  adventured  through  the  burn 
ing  sunshine  up  into  the  town,  inquiring  our  way  to  the 
residence  of  Burns.  The  street  leading  from  the  station 
is  called  Shakspeare  Street ;  and  at  its  farther  extremity 
we  read  "  Burns  Street"  on  a  corner-house, —  the  avenue 
thus  designated  having  been  formerly  known  as  "  Mill 
Hole  Brae."  It  is  a  vile  lane,  paved  with  small,  hard 
stones  from  side  to  side,  and  bordered  by  cottages  or 
mean  houses  of  whitewashed  stone,  joining  one  to  an 
other  along  the  whole  length  of  the  street.  With  not  a 
tree,  of  course,  or  a  blade  of  glass  between  the  paving- 
stones,  the  narrow  lane  was  as  hot  as  Tophet,  and  reeked 


226     SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS. 

with  a  genuine  Scotch  odor,  being  infested  with  unwashed 
children,  and  altogether  in  a  state  of  chronic  filth  ;  al 
though  some  women  seemed  to  be  hopelessly  scrubbing 
the  thresholds  of  their  wretched  dwellings.  I  never  saw 
an  outskirt  of  a  town  less  fit  for  a  poet's  residence,  or  in 
which  it  would  be  more  miserable  for  any  man  of  cleanly 
predilections  to  spend  his  days. 

We  asked  for  Burns's  dwelling;  and  a  woman  pointed 
across  the  street  to  a  two-story  house,  built  of  stone,  and 
whitewashed,  like  its  neighbors,  but  perhaps  of  a  little 
more  respectable  aspect  than  most  of  them,  though  I 
hesitate  in  saying  so.  It  was  not  a  separate  structure, 
but  under  the  same  continuous  roof  with  the  next. 
There  was  an  inscription  on  the  door,  bearing  no  refer 
ence  to  Burns,  but  indicating  that  the  house  was  now 
occupied  by  a  ragged  or  industrial  school.  On  knocking, 
we  were  instantly  admitted  by  a  servant-girl,  who  smiled 
intelligently  when  we  told  our  errand,  and  showed  us 
into  a  low  and  very  plain  parlor,  not  more  than  twelve  or 
fifteen  feet  square.  A  young  woman,  who  seemed  to  be 
a  teacher  in  the  school,  soon  appeared,  and  told  us  that 
this  had  been  Burns's  usual  sitting-room,  and  that  he  had 
written  many  of  his  songs  here. 

She  then  led  us  up  a  narrow  staircase  into  a  little  bed 
chamber  over  the  parlor.  Connecting  with  it,  there  is  a 
very  small  room,  or  windowed  closet,  which  Burns  used 
us  a  study ;  and  the  bedchamber  itself  was  the  ope 
where  he  slept  in  his  later  lifetime,  and  in  which  he 
died  at  last.  Altogether,  it  is  an  exceedingly  unsuitable 
place  for  a  pastoral  and  rural  poet  to  live  or  die  in,  — 
even  more  unsatisfactory  than  Shakspeare's  house,  which 
has  a  certain  homely  picturesqueness  that  contrasts  favor 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS      227 

ably  with  the  suburban  sordidness  of  the  abode  before  us. 
The  narrow  lane,  the  paving-stones,  and  the  contiguity 
of  wretched  hovels  are  depressing  to  remember  ;  and  the 
steam  of  them  (such  is  our  human  weakness)  might 
almost  make  the  poet's  memory  less  fragrant. 

As  already  observed,  it  was  an  intolerably  hot  day. 
After  leaving  the  house,  we  found  our  way  into  the  prin 
cipal  street  of  the  town,  which,  it  may  be  fair  to  say,  ia 
of  very  different  aspect  from  the  wretched  outskirt  above 
described.  Entering  a  hotel,  (in  which,  as  a  Dumfries 
guide-book  assured  us,  Prince  Charles  Edward  had  once 
spent  a  night,)  we  rested  and  refreshed  ourselves,  and 
then  set  forth  in  quest  of  the  mausoleum  of  Burns. 

Coming  to  St.  Michael's  Church,  we  saw  a  man  dig 
ging  a  grave ,  and,  scrambling  out  of  the  hole,  he  let  us 
into  the  churchyard,  which  was  crowded  full  of  monu 
ments.  Their  general  shape  and  construction  are  pecu 
liar  to  Scotland,  being  a  perpendicular  tablet  of  marble 
or  other  stone,  within  a  framework  of  the  same  material, 
somewhat  resembling  the  frame  of  a  looking-glass ;  and, 
all  over  the  churchyard,  these  sepulchral  memorials  rise 
to  the  height  of  ten,  fifteen,  or  twenty  feet,  forming  quite 
an  imposing  collection  of  monuments,  but  inscribed  with 
names  of  small  general  significance.  It  was  easy,  indeed, 
to  ascertain  the  rank  of  those  who  slept  below ;  for  in 
Scotland  it  is  the  custom  to  put  the  occupation  of  the 
buried  personage  (as  "  Skinner,"  "  Shoemaker,"  "  Flesh-' 
er")  on  his  tombstone.  As  another  peculiarity,  wives 
are  buried  under  their  maiden  names,  instead  of  those 
of  their  husbands  ;  thus  giving  a  disagreeable  impression 
that  the  married  pair  have  bidden  each  other  an  eternal 
farewell  on  the  edge  of  the  grave. 


228     SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS. 

There  was  a  footpath  through  this  crowded  church 
yard,  sufficiently  well  worn  to  guide  us  to  the  grave  of 
Burns  ;  but  a  woman  followed  behind  us,  who,  it  ap 
peared,  kept  the  key  of  the  mausoleum,  and  was  privi 
leged  to  show  it  to  strangers.  The  monument  is  a  sort 
of  Grecian  temple,  with  pilasters  and  a  dome,  covering  a 
space  of  about  twenty  feet  square.  It  was  formerly  open 
to  all  the  inclemencies  of  the  Scotch  atmosphere,  but  is 
now  protected  and  shut  in  by  large  squares  of  rough 
glass,  each  pane  being  of  the  size  of  one  whole  side  of 
the  structure.  The  woman  unlocked  the  door,  and  ad 
mitted  us  into  the  interior.  Inlaid  into  the  floor  of  the 
mausoleum  is  the  gravestone  of  Burns,  —  the  very  same 
that  was  laid  over  his  grave  by  Jean  Armour,  before  this 
monument  was  built.  Displayed  against  the  surrounding 
wall  is  a  marble  statue  of  Burns  at  the  plough,  with  the 
Genius  of  Caledonia  summoning  the  ploughman  to  turn 
poet.  Methought  it  was  not  a  very  successful  piece  of 
work  ;  for  the  plough  was  better  sculptured  than  the 
man,  and  the  man,  though  heavy  and  cloddish,  was  more 
effective  than  the  goddess.  Our  guide  informed  us  that 
an  old  man  of  ninety,  who  knew  Burns,  certifies  this 
statue  to  be  very  like  the  original. 

The  bones  of  the  poet,  and  of  Jean  Armour,  and  of 
some  of  their  children,  lie  in  the  vault  over  which  we 
stood.  Our  guide  (who  was  intelligent,  in  her  own  plain 
way,  and  very  agreeable  to  talk  withal)  said  that  the 
vault  was  opened  about  three  weeks  ago,  on  occasion  of 
the  burial  of  the  eldest  son  of  Burns.  The  poet's  bones 
were  disturbed,  and  the  dry  skull,  once  so  brimming  over 
with  powerful  thought  and  bright  and  tender  fantasies, 
was  taken  away,  and  kept  for  several  days  by  a  Dumfries 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BIJRXS.  229 

doctor.  It  has  since  been  deposited  in  a  new  leaden 
coffin,  and  restored  to  the  vault.  We  learned  that  there 
is  a  surviving  daughter  of  Burns's  eldest  son,  and  daugh 
ters  likewise  of  the  two  younger  sons,  —  and,  besides 
these,  an  illegitimate  posterity  by  the  eldest  son,  who 
appears  to  have  been  of  disreputable  life  in  his  younger 
days.  He  inherited  his  father's  failings,  with  some  faint 
shadow,  I  have  also  understood,  of  the  great  qualities 
which  have  made  the  world  tender  of  his  father's  vices 
and  weaknesses. 

We  listened  readily  enough  to  this  paltry  gossip,  but 
found  that  it  robbed  the  poet's  memory  of  some  of  the 
reverence  that  was  its  due.  Indeed,  this  talk  over  his 
grave  had  very  much  the  same  tendency  and  effect 
as  the  home-scene  of  his  life,  which  we  had  been  visit 
ing  just  previously.  Beholding  his  poor,  mean  dwelling 
and  its  surroundings,  and  picturing  his  outward  life  and 
earthly  manifestations  from  these,  one  does  not  so  much 
wonder  that  the  people  of  that  day  should  have  failed  to 
recognize  all  that  was  admirable  and  immortal  in  a  dis 
reputable,  drunken,  shabbily  clothed,  and  shabbily  housed 
man,  consorting  with  associates  of  damaged  character, 
and,  as  his  only  ostensible  occupation,  gauging  the  whiskey, 
which  he  too  often  tasted.  Siding  with  Burns,  as  we 
needs  must,  in  his  plea  against  the  world,  let  us  try  to  do 
the  world  a  little  justice  too.  It  is  far  easier  to  know 
and  honor  a  poet  when  his  fame  has  taken  shape  in  the 
spotlessness  of  marble  than  when  the  actual  man  comes 
staggering  before  you,  besmeared  with  the  sordid  stains 
of  his  daily  life.  For  my  part,  I  chiefly  wonder  that  his 
recognition  dawned  so  brightly  while  he  was  still  living. 
There  must  have  been  something  very  grand  in  his  im 


230     SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS. 

mediate  presence,  some  strangely  impressive  characteris 
tic  in  his  natural  behavior,  to  have  caused  him  to  seem 
like  a  demigod  so  soon. 

As  we  went  back  through  the  churchyard,  we  saw  a 
spot  where  nearly  four  hundred  inhabitants  of  Dumfries 
were  buried  during  the  cholera  year  ;  and  also  some  curi 
ous  old  monuments,  with  raised  letters,  the  inscriptions  on 
which  were  not  sufficiently  legible  to  induce  us  to  puzzle 
them  out ;  but,  I  believe,  they  mark  the  resting-places  of 
old  Covenanters,  some  of  whom  were  killed  by  Cluver- 
house  and  his  fellow-ruffians. 

St.  Michael's  Church  is  of  red  freestone,  and  was  built 
about  a  hundred  years  ago,  on  an  old  Catholic  foundation. 
Our  guide  admitted  us  into  it,  and  showed  us,  in  the 
porch,  a  very  pretty  little  marble  figure  of  a  child  asleep, 
with  a  drapery  over  the  lower  part,  from  beneath  which 
appeared  its  two  baby  feet.  It  was  truly  a  sweet  little 
statue  ;  and  the  woman  told  us  that  it  represented  a  child 
of  the  sculptor,  and  that  the  baby  (here  still  in  its  marble 
infancy)  had  died  more  than  twenty-six  years  ago. 
"  Many  ladies,"  she  said, "  especially  such  as  had  ever  lost 
a  child,  had  shed  tears  over  it."  It  was  very  pleasant  to 
think  of  the  sculptor  bestowing  the  best  of  his  genius  and 
art  to  re-create  his  tender  child  in  stone,  and  to  make  the 
representation  as  soft  and  sweet  as  the  original ;  but  the 
conclusion  of  the  story  has  something  that  jars  with  our 
awakened  sensibilities.  A  gentleman  from  London  had 
Been  the  statue,  and  was  so  much  delighted  with  it  that 
he  bought  it  of  the  father-artist,  after  it  had  lain  above 
a  quarts  of  a  century  in  the  church-porch.  So  this 
was  not  the  real,  tender  image  that  came  out  of  the 
Other's  heart;  he  had  sold  that  truest  one  for  a  him- 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS.     231 

cL  \  guineas,  and  3ctilptored  this  mere  copy  to  replace  it. 
Tkc  first  figure  was  entirely  naked  in  its  earthly  and 
spiritual  innocence.  The  copy,  as  I  have  said  above,  has 
a  drapery  over  the  lower  limbs.  But,  after  all,  if  wo 
come  to  the  truth  of  the  matter,  the  sleeping  baby  may 
be  as  fitly  reposited  in  the  drawing-room  of  a  connoisseur 
as  in  a  cold  and  dreary  church-porch. 

We  went  into  the  church,  and  found  it  very  plain  and 
naked,  without  altar-decorations,  and  having  its  floor  quite 
covered  with  unsightly  wooden  pews.  The  woman  led  us 
to  a  pew  cornering  on  one  of  the  side-aisles,  and,  telling 
us  that  it  used  to  be  Burns's  family-pew,  showed  us  his 
seat,  which  is  in  the  corner  by  the  aisle.  It  is  so  situated, 
that  a  sturdy  pillar  hid  him  from  the  pulpit,  and  from  the 
minister's  eye  ;  "  for  Robin  was  no  great  friends  with  the 
ministers,"  said  she.  This  touch  —  his  seat  behind  the 
pillar,  and  Burns  himself  nodding  in  sermon-time,  or 
keenly  observant  of  profane  things  —  brought  him  before 
us  to  the  life.  In  the  corner-seat  of  the  next  pew,  right 
before  Burns,  and  not  more  than  two  feet  off,  sat  the 
young  lady  on  whom  the  poet  saw  that  unmentionable 
parasite  which  he  has  immortalized  in  song.  We  were 
ungenerous  enough  to  ask  the  lady's  name,  but  the  good 
woman  could  not  tell  it.  This  was  the  last  thing  which 
we  saw  in  Dumfries  worthy  of  record ;  and  it  ought  to 
be  noted  that  our  guide  refused  some  money  which  my 
companion  offered  her,  because  I  had  already  paid  her 
what  she  deemed  sufficient. 

At  the  railway  station  we  spent  more  than  a  weary 
hour,  waiting  for  the  train,  which  at  last  came  up,  and 
took  us  to  Mauchline.  We  got  into  an  omnibus,  the  only 
wnveyance  to  be  had,  and  drove  about  a  mile  to  the  vit 


xM2      SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS. 

lage,  where  we  established  ourselves  at  the  Loudoun 
Hotel,  one  of  the  veriest  country  inns  which  we  have 
found  in  Great  Britain.  The  town  of  Mauchline,  a  place 
more  redolent  of  Burns  than  almost  any  other,  consists  of 
a  street  or  two  of  contiguous  cottages,  mostly  white 
washed,  and  with  thatched  roofs.  It  has  nothing  sylvan 
or  rural  in  the  immediate  village,  and  is  as  ugly  a  place 
u»  mortal  man  could  contrive  to  make,  or  to  render  uglier 
through  a  succession  of  untidy  generations.  The  fashion 
of  paving  the  village  street,  and  patching  one  shabby 
house  on  the  gable-end  of  another,  quite  shuts  out  all 
verdure  and  pleasantness ;  but,  I  presume,  we  are  not 
likely  to  see  a  more  genuine  old  Scotch  village,  such  as 
they  used  to  be  in  Burns's  time,  and  long  before,  than  this 
of  Mauchline.  The  church  stands  about  midway  up  the 
Btreet,  and  is  built  of  red  freestone,  very  simple  in  its 
architecture,  with  a  square  tower  and  pinnacles.  In  this 
sacred  edifice,  and  its  churchyard,  was  the  scene  of  one 
of  Burns's  most  characteristic  productions,  "The  Holy 
Fair." 

Almost  directly  opposite  its  gate,  across  the  village 
street,  stands  Posie  Nansie's  inn,  where  the  "  Jolly  Beg 
gars  "  congregated.  The  latter  is  a  t\vo-story,  red-stone, 
thatched  house,  looking  old,  but  by  no  means  venerable, 
like  a  drunken  patriarch.  It  has  small,  old-fashioned 
windows,  and  may  well  have  stood  for  centuries, — 
though,  seventy  or  eighty  years  ago,  when  Burns  was 
conversant  with  it,  I  should  fancy  it  might  have  been 
something  better  than  a  beggars'  alehouse.  The  whole 
town  of  Mauchline  looks  rusty  and  time-worn,  —  even 
the  newer  houses,  of  which  there  are  several,  being  shad 
owed  and  darkened  by  the  general  aspect  of  the  plae*?. 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS   OF  BURNS'.  233 

When  we  arrived,  all  the  wretched  little  dwellings  seemed 
to  have  belched  forth  their  inhabitants  into  the  warm 
Bummer  evening ;  everybody  was  chatting  with  every 
body,  on  the  most  familiar  terms  ;  the  bare-legged  chil 
dren  gambolled  or  quarrelled  uproariously,  and  came 
freely,  moreover,  and  looked  into  the  window  of  our  par 
lor.  When  we  ventured  out,  we  were  followed  by  the 
gaze  of  the  old  town :  people  standing  in  their  doorways, 
old  women  popping  their  heads  from  the  chamber-win 
dows,  and  stalwart  men  —  idle  on  Saturday  at  e'en,  after 
their  week's  hard  labor  —  clustering  at  the  street-corners, 
merely  to  stare  at  our  unpretending  selves.  Except  in 
Borne  remote  little  town  of  Italy,  (where,  besides,  the 
inhabitants  had  the  intelligible  stimulus  of  beggary,)  I 
have  never  been  honored  with  nearly  such  an  amount  of 
public  notice. 

The  next  forenoon  my  companion  put  me  to  shame  by 
attending  church,  after  vainly  exhorting  me  to  do  the  like  ; 
and,  it  being  Sacrament  Sunday,  and  my  poor  friend  be 
ing  wedged  into  the  farther  end  of  a  closely  filled  pew, 
he  was  forced  to  stay  through  the  preaching  of  four  sev 
eral  sermons,  and  came  back  perfectly  exhausted  and  des 
perate.  He  was  somewhat  consoled,  however,  on  finding 
that  he  had  witnessed  a  spectacle  of  Scotch  manners 
identical  with  that  of  Burns's  "  Holy  Fair,"  on  the  very 
spot  where  the  poet  located  that  immortal  description. 
By  way  of  further  conformance  to  the  customs  of  the 
country,  we  ordered  a  sheep's  head  and  the  broth,  and  did 
penance  accordingly  ;  and  at  five  o'clock  we  took  a  fly, 
and  set  out  for  Burns's  farm  of  Moss  Giel. 

Moss  Giel  is  not  more  than  a  mile  from  Mauchline, 
and  the  road  extends  over  a  high  ridge  of  land,  with  ji 


234:     SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS. 

view  of  far  hills  and  green  slopes  on  either  side.  Just 
before  we  reached  the  farm,  the  driver  stopped  to  point 
out  a  hawthorn,  growing  by  the  wayside,  which  he  said 
was  Burns's  "  Lousie  Thorn ;  "  and  I  devoutly  plucked 
a  branch,  although  I  have  really  forgotten  where  or  how 
this  illustrious  shrub  has  been  celebrated.  We  then 
turned  into  a  rude  gateway,  and  almost  immediately 
came  to  the  farm-house  of  Moss  Giel,  standing  some  fifty 
yards  removed  from  the  high-road,  behind  a  tall  hedge 
of  hawthorn,  and  considerably  overshadowed  by  trees. 
The  house  is  a  whitewashed  stone  cottage,  like  thousands 
of  others  in  England  and  Scotland,  with  a  thatched  roof, 
on  which  grass  and  weeds  have  intruded  a  picturesque, 
though  alien  growth.  There  is  a  door  and  one  window 
in  front,  besides  another  little  window  that  peeps  out 
among  the  thatch.  Close  by  the  cottage,  and  extending 
back  at  right  angles  from  it,  so  as  to  inclose  the  farm 
yard,  are  two  other  "mildings  of  the  same  size,  shape,  and 
general  appearance  as  the  house :  any  one  of  the  three 
looks  just  as  fit  for  a  human  habitation  as  the  two  others, 
and  all  three  look  still  more  suitable  for  donkey-stables 
and  pigsties.  As  we  drove  into  the  farm-yard,  bounded 
on  three  sides  by  these  three  hovels,  a  large  dog  began 
to  bark  at  us  ;  and  some  women  and  children  made  their 
appearance,  but  seemed  to  demur  about  admitting  us, 
because  the  master  and  mistress  were  very  religious 
people,  and  had  not  yet  come  back  from  the  Sacrament 
at  Mauchline. 

However,  it  would  not  do  to  be  turned  back  from  the 
very  threshold  of  Robert  Burns ;  and  as  the  women 
permed  to  be  merely  straggling  visitors,  and  nobody,  at 
all  events,  had  a  right  to  send  us  away,  we  went  into  the 


SOME  OF  T1IZ  HAUNTS   OF  BURNS.  235 

back-door,  and,  turning  to  the  right,  entered  a  kitchen.  It 
showed  a  deplorable  lack  of  housewifely  neatness,  and  in 
it  there  were  three  or  four  children,  one  of  whom,  a  girl 
eight  or  nine  years  old,  held  a  baby  in  her  arms.  She 
proved  to  be  the  daughter  of  the  people  of  the  house,  and 
gave  us  what  leave  she  could  to  look  about  us.  Thence 
we  stepped  across  the  narrow  mid-passage  of  the  cottage 
into  the  only  other  apartment  below-stairs,  a  sitting-room, 
where  we  found  a  young  man  eating  bread  and  cheese. 
He  informed  us  that  he  did  not  live  there,  and  had  only 
called  in  to  refresh  himself  on  his  way  home  from  church. 
This  room,  like  the  kitchen,  was  a  noticeably  poor  one, 
and,  besides  being  all  that  the  cottage  had  to  show  for  a 
parlor,  it  was  a  sleeping-apartment,  having  two  beds, 
which  might  be  curtained  off,  on  occasion.  The  young 
man  allowed  us  liberty  (so  far  as  in  him  lay)  to  go  up 
stairs.  Up  we  crept,  accordingly ;  and  a  few  steps 
brought  us  to  the  top  of  the  staircase,  over  the  kitchen, 
where  we  found  the  wretchedest  little  sleeping-chamber 
in  the  world,  with  a  sloping  roof  under  the  thatch,  and 
two  beds  spread  upon  the  bare  floor.  This,  most  prob 
ably,  was  Burns's  rh amber ;  or,  perhaps,  it  may  have 
been  that  of  his  mother's  servant-maid  ;  and,  in  either 
case,  this  rude  floor,  at  one  time  or  another,  must  have 
creaked  beneath  the  poet's  midnight  tread.  On  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  passage  was  the  door  of  another  atti 
chamber,  opening  which,  I  saw  a  considerable  numbei 
of  cheeses  on  the  floor. 

The  whole  house  was  pervaded  with  a  frowzy  smell, 
and  also  a  dunghill  odor ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  understand 
now  the  atmosphere  of  such  a  dwelling  can  be  any  more 
o*  salubrious  morally  than  it  appeared  to  bo 


236  .SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS. 

physically.  No  virgin,  surely,  could  keep  a  holy  awe 
about  her  while  stowed  higgledy-piggledy  with  coarse- 
natured  rustics  into  this  narrowness  and  filth.  Such  a 
habitation  is  calculated  to  make  beasts  of  men  and  women ; 
and  it  indicates  a  degree  of  barbarism  which  I  did  not 
Imagine  to  exist  in  Scotland,  that  a  tiller  of  broad  fields, 
ii*e  the  former  of  Mauchline,  should  have  his  abode  in  a 
pigsty.  It  is  sad  to  think  of  anybody  —  not  to  say  a 
poet,  but  any  human  being  —  sleeping,  eating,  thinking, 
praying,  and  spending  all  his  home-life  in  this  miser 
able  hovel ;  but,  methinks,  I  never  in  the  least  knew 
how  to  estimate  the  miracle  of  Burns's  genius,  nor 
his  heroic  merit  for  being  no  worse  man,  until  I  thus 
learned  the  squalid  hindrances  amid  which  he  developed 
himself.  Space,  a  free  atmosphere,  and  cleanliness 
have  a  vast  deal  to  do  with  the  possibilities  of  human 
virtue. 

The  biographers  talk  of  the  farm  of  Moss  Giel  as  being 
damp  and  unwholesome  ;  but  I  do  not  see  why,  outside 
of  the  cottage  walls,  it  should  possess  so  evil  a  reputation. 
It  occupies  a  high,  broad  ridge,  enjoying,  surely,  what 
ever  benefit  can  come  of  a  breezy  site,  and  sloping  far 
downward  before  any  marshy  soil  is  reached.  The  high 
hedge,  and  the  trees  that  stand  beside  the  cottage,  give 
it  a  pleasant  aspect  enough  to  one  who  does  not  know  the 
grimy  secrets  of  the  interior  ;  and  the  summer  afternoon 
was  now  so  bright  that  I  shall  remember  the  scene  witli 
a  great  deal  of  sunshine  over  it. 

Leaving  the  cottage,  we  drove  through  a  field,  which 
the  driver  told  us  was  that  in  which  Burns  turned  up  the 
mouse's  nest.  It  is  the  inclosure  nearest  to  the  cottage 
and  seems  now  to  be  a  pasture,  and  a  rathor  remark 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS.     237 

ably  unfertile  one.  A  little  farther  on,  the  ground  waa 
whitened  with  an  immense  number  of  daisies,  —  daisies, 
daisies  everywhere  ;  and  in  answer  to  my  inquiry,  the 
driver  said  that  this  was  the  field  where  Burns  ran  his 
ploughshare  over  the  daisy.  If  so,  the  soil  seems  to  have 
been  consecrated  to  daisies  by  the  song  which  he  bestowed 
on  that  first  immortal  one.  I  alighted,  and  plucked  a 
whole  handful  of  these  "wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped 
flowers,"  which  will  be  precious  to  many  friends  in  our 
own  country  as  coming  from  Burns's  farm,  and  being 
of  the  same  race  and  lineage  as  that  daisy  which  he 
turned  into  an  amaranthine  flower  while  seeming  to  de 
stroy  it. 

From  Moss  Giel  we  drove  through  a  variety  of  pleas 
ant  scenes,  some  of  which  were  familiar  to  us  by  their 
connection  with  Burns.  We  skirted,  too,  along  a  portion 
of  the  estate  of  Auchinleck,  which  still  belongs  to  the 
Boswell  family,  —  the  present  possessor  being  Sir  James 
Boswell,*  a  grandson  of  Johnson's  friend,  and  son  of  the 
Sir  Alexander  who  was  killed  in  a  duel.  Our  driver 
spoke  of  Sir  James  as  a  kind,  free-hearted  man,  but 
addicted  to  horse-races  and  similar  pastimes,  and  a  little 
too  familiar  with  the  wine-cup  ;  so  that  poor  Bozzy's 
booziness  would  appear  to  have  become  hereditary  in 
his  ancient  line.  There  is  no  male  heir  to  the  estate 
of  Auchinleck.  The  portion  of  the  lands  which  we 
saw  is  covered  with  wood  and  much  undermined  wit! 
rabbit-warrens  ;  nor,  though  the  territory  extends  over 
a  large  number  of  acres,  is  the  income  very  consider 
able. 

By  and  by  we  came  to  the  spot  where  Burns  saw  Miss 
*  Sir  James  Boswell  is  now  dead. 


238      SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS. 

Alexander,  the  Lass  of  Ballochmyle.  It  was  on  a  bridge, 
which  (or,  more  probably,  a  bridge  that  has  succeeded  to 
the  old  one,  and  is  made  of  iron)  crosses  from  bank  to 
bank,  high  in  air,  over  a  deep  gorge  of  the  road  ;  so  that 
the  young  lady  may  have  appeared  to  Burns  like  a  crea 
ture  between  earth  and  sky,  and  compounded  chiefly  of 
celestial  elements  But,  in  honest  truth,  the  great  charm 
of  a  woman,  in  Burns's  eyes,  was  always  her  womanhood, 
and  not  the  angelic  mixture  which  other  poets  find 
in  her. 

Our  driver  pointed  out  the  course  taken  by  the  Lass 
of  Ballochmyle,  through  the  shrubbery,  to  a  rock  on  the 
banks  of  the  Lugar,  where  it  seems  to  be  the  tradition 
that  Burns  accosted  her.  The  song  implies  no  such  inter 
view.  Lovers,  of  whatever  condition,  high  or  low,  could 
desire  no  lovelier  scene  in  which  to  breathe  their  vows : 
the  river  flowing  over  its  pebbly  bed,  sometimes  gleaming 
into  the  sunshine,  sometimes  hidden  deep  in  verdure,  and 
here  and  there  eddying  at  the  foot  of  high  and  precipitous 
cliffs.  This  beautiful  estate  of  Ballochmyle  is  still  held 
by  the  family  of  Alexanders,  to  whom  Burns's  song  has 
given  renown  on  cheaper  terms  than  any  other  set  of 
people  ever  attained  it.  How  slight  the  tenure  seems ! 
A  young  lady  happened  to  walk  out,  one  summer  after 
noon,  and  crossed  the  path  of  a  neighboring  farmer,  who 
celebrated  the  little  incident  in  four  or  five  warm,  rude, 
—  at  least,  not  refined,  though  rather  ambitious,  —  and 
Bomcwlmt  ploughman-like  verses.  Burns  has  written 
hundreds  of  better  things  ;  but  henceforth,  for  centuries, 
that  maiden  has  free  admittance  into  the  dream-land  of 
Beautiful  AYomen,  and  she  and  all  her  race  are  famous  . 
I  should  like  to  know  the  present  head  of  the  family,  and 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS.     239 

ascertain  what  value,  if  any,  the  members  of  it  put  upon 
the  celebrity  thus  won. 

We  passed  through  Catrine,  known  hereabouts  as  "  the 
clean  village  of  Scotland."  Certainly,  as  regards  the 
point  indicated,  it  has  greatly  the  advantage  of  Mauch- 
line,  whither  we  now  returned  without  seeing  anything 
else  worth  writing  about. 

There  was  a  rain-storm  during  the  night,  and.  in  the 
morning,  the  rusty,  old,  sloping  street  of  Mauchline  was 
glistening  with  wet,  while  frequent  showers  came  spatter 
ing  down.  The  intense  heat  of  many  days  past  was  ex 
changed  for  a  chilly  atmosphere,  much  more  suitable  to  a 
stranger's  idea  of  what  Scotch  temperature  ought  to  be. 
We  found,  after  breakfast,  that  the  first  train  northward 
had  already  gone  by,  and  that  we  must  wait  till  nearly 
two  o'clock  for  the  next.  I  merely  ventured  out  once, 
during  the  forenoon,  and  took  a  brief  walk  through  the 
village,  in  which  I  have  left  little  to  describe.  Its  chief 
business  appears  to  be  the  manufacture  of  snuff-boxes. 
There  are  perhaps  five  or  six  shops,  or  more,  including 
those  licensed  to  sell  only  tea  and  tobacco  ;  the  best  of 
them  have  the  characteristics  of  village  stores  in  the  United 
States,  dealing  in  a  small  way  with  an  extensive  variety 
of  articles.  I  peeped  into  the  open  gateway  of  the 
churchyard,  and  saw  that  the  ground  was  absolutely 
stuffed  with  dead  people,  and  the  surface  crowded  with 
gravestones,  both  perpendicular  and  horizontal.  All 
Burns's  old  Mauchline  acquaintance  are  doubtless  there, 
and  the  Armours  among  them,  except  Bonny  Jean,  who 
sleeps  by  her  poet's  side.  The  family  of  Armour  is  now 
extinct  in  Mauchline. 

Arriving  at  the  railway  station,  we  found  a  tall,  elderly, 


240  SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS   OF  BURNS. 

comely  gentleman  walking  to  and  fro  and  waiting  for  the 
train.  He  proved  to  be  a  Mr.  Alexander,  —  it  may  fairly 
be  presumed  the  Alexander  of  Ballochmyle,  a  blood  rela 
tion  of  the  lovely  lass.  Wonderful  efficacy  of  a  poet's 
verse,  that  could  shed  a  glory  from  Long  Ago  on  this  old 
gentleman's  white  hair !  These  Alexanders,  by  the  by, 
are  not  an  old  family  on  the  Ballochmyle  estate  ;  the 
father  of  the  lass  having  made  a  fortune  in  trade,  and 
established  himself  as  the  first  landed  proprietor  of  his 
name  in  these  parts.  The  original  family  was  named 
Whitefoord. 

Our  ride  to  Ayr  presented  nothing  very  remarkable  ; 
and,  indeed,  a  cloudy  and  rainy  day  takes  the  varnish  off 
the  scenery,  and  causes  a  woful  diminution  in  the  beauty 
and  impressiveness  of  everything  we  see.  Much  of  our 
way  lay  along  a  flat,  sandy  level,  in  a  southerly  direction. 
We  reached  Ayr  in  the  midst  of  hopeless  rain,  and  drove 
to  the  King's  Arms  Hotel.  In  the  intervals  of  showers 
I  took  peeps  at  the  town,  which  appeared  to  have  many 
modern  or  modern-fronted  edifices  ;  although  there  are 
likewise  tall,  gray,  gabled,  and  quaint-looking  houses  in 
the  by-streets,  here  and  there,  betokening  an  ancient  place. 
The  town  lies  on  both  sides  .of  the  Ayr,  which  is  hero 
broad  and  stately,  and  bordered  with  dwellings  that 
look  from  their  windows  directly  down  into  the  passing 
tide. 

I  crossed  the  river  by  a  modern  and  handsome  stone 
bridge,  and  recrossed  it,  at  no  great  distance,  by  a  vener 
able  structure  of  four  gray  arches,  which  must  have  be 
stridden  the  stream  ever  since  the  early  days  of  Scottish 
history.  These  are  the  "  Two  Briggs  of  Ayr,"  whose 
midnight  conversation  was  overheard  by  Burns,  while 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS.  241 

other  auditors  were  aware  only  of  the  rush  and  nimble 
of  the  wintry  stream  among  the  arches.  The  ancient 
bridge  is  steep  and  narrow,  and  paved  like  a  street,  and 
defended  by  a  parapet  of  red  freestone,  except  at  the 
two  ends,  where  some  mean  old  shops  allow  scanty  room 
for  the  pathway  to  creep  between.  Nothing  else  im 
pressed  me  hereabouts,  unless  I  mention,  that,  during  the 
rain,  the  women  and  girls  went  about  the  streets  of  Ayr 
barefooted  to  save  their  shoes. 

The  next  morning  wore  a  lowering  aspect,  as  if  it  felt 
itself  destined  to  be  one  of  many  consecutive  days  of 
storm.  After  a  good  Scotch  breakfast,  however,  of  fresh 
herrings  and  eggs,  we  took  a  fly,  and  started  at  a  little 
past  ten  for  the  banks  of  the  Doon.  On  our  way,  at 
about  two  miles  from  Ayr,  we  drew  up  at  a  roadside  cot 
tage,  on  which  was  an  inscription  to  the  effect  that  Robert 
Burns  was  born  within  its  walls.  It  is  now  a  public- 
house  ;  and,  of  course,  we  alighted  and  entered  its  little 
sitting-room,  which,  as  we  at  present  see  it,  is  a  neat 
apartment,  with  the  modern  improvement  of  a  ceiling. 
The  walls  are  much  overscribbled  with  names  of  visitors, 
and  the  wooden  door  of  a  cupboard  in  the  wainscot,  as 
well  as  all  the  other  wood-work  of  the  room,  is  cut  and 
carved  with  initial  letters.  So,  likewise,  are  two  tables, 
which,  having  received  a  coat  of  varnish  over  the  inscrip 
tions,  form  really  curious  and  interesting  articles  of  fur 
niture.  I  have  seldom  (though  I  do  not  personally 
adopt  this  mode  of  illustrating  my  humble  name)  felt 
inclined  to  ridicule  the  natural  impulse  of  most  people 
thus  to  record  themselves  at  the  shrines  of  poets  and 
heroes. 

On  a  pane1  Jet  into  the  wall  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  ia 

16 


242      SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS. 

a  portrait  of  Burns,  copied  from  the  original  picture  bj 
Nasmyth.  The  floor  of  this  apartment  is  of  boards, 
which  are  probably  a  recent  substitute  for  the  ordinary 
flag-stones  of  a  peasant's  cottage.  There  is  but  one  other 
room  pertaining  to  the  genuine  birthplace  of  Robert 
Burns  :  it  is  the  kitchen,  into  which  we  now  went.  It 
has  a  floor  of  flag-stones,  even  ruder  than  those  of  Shak- 
gpeare's  house, — though,  perhaps,  not  so  strangely  cracked 
and  broken  as  the  latter,  over  which  the  hoof  of  Satan 
himself  might  seem  to  have  been  trampling.  A  new 
window  has  been  opened  through  the  wall,  towards  the 
road  ;  but  on  the  opposite  side  is  the  little  original  win 
dow,  of  only  four  small  panes,  through  which  came  the 
first  daylight  that  shone  upon  the  Scottish  poet.  At  the 
side  of  the  room,  opposite  the  fireplace,  is  a  recess,  con 
taining  a  bed,  which  can  be  hidden  by  curtains.  In  that 
humble  nook,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  Providence  was 
pleased  to  deposit  the  germ  of  the  richest  human  life 
which  mankind  then  had  within  its  circumference. 

These  two  rooms,  as  I  have  said,  make  up  the  whole 
sum  and  substance  of  Burns's  birthplace  :  for  there  were 
no  chambers,  nor  even  attics  ;  and  the  thatched  roof 
formed  the  only  ceiling  of  kitchen  and  sitting-room,  the 
height  of  which  was  that  of  the  whole  house.  The  cot 
tage,  however,  is  attached  to  another  edifice  of  the  same 
size  and  description,  as  these  little  habitations  often  are  ; 
and,  moreover,  a  splendid  addition  has  been  made  to  it, 
since  the  poet's  renown  began  to  draw  visitors  to  the  way 
side  ale-house.  The  old  woman  of  the  house  led  us 
through  an  entry,  and  showed  a  vaulted  hall,  of  no  vast 
dimensions,  to  be  sure,  but  marvellously  large  and  splen 
did  as  compared  with  what  might  be  anticipated  from  the 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS.  243 

Dut-vvard  aspect  of  the  cottage.  It  contained  a  bust  of 
Burns,  and  \vas  hung  round  with  pictures  and  engravings, 
principally  illustrative  of  his  life  and  poems.  In  this 
part  of  the  house,  too,  there  is  a  parlor,  fragrant  with 
tobacco-smoke  ;  and,  no  doubt,  many  a  noggin  of  whiskey 
is  here  quaffed  to  the  memory  of  the  bard,  who  professed 
to  draw  so  much  inspiration  from  that  potent  liquor. 

We  bought  some  engravings  of  Kirk  Alloway,  the 
Bridge  of  Doon,  and  the  monument,  and  gave  the  old 
woman  a  fee  besides,  and  took  our  leave.  A  very  short 
drive  farther  brought  us  within  sight  of  the  monument, 
and  to  the  hotel,  situated  close  by  the  entrance  of  the 
ornamental  grounds  within  which  the  former  is  enclosed. 
We  rang  the  bell  at  the  gate  of  the  enclosure,  but  were 
forced  to  wait  a  considerable  time  ;  because  the  old  man, 
the  regular  superintendent  of  the  spot,  had  gone  to  assist 
at  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  a  new  kirk.  Pie 
appeared  anon,  and  admitted  us,  but  immediately  hurried 
uway  to  be  present  at  the  concluding  ceremonies,  leaving 
us  locked  up  with  Burns. 

The  enclosure  around  the  monument  is  beautifully  laid 
out  as  an  ornamental  garden,  and  abundantly  provided 
with  rare  flowers  and  shrubbery,  all  tended  with  loving 
care.  The  monument  stands  on  an  elevated  site,  and 
consists  of  a  massive  basement-story,  three-sided,  above 
which  rises  a  light  and  elegant  Grecian  temple,  —  a  mere 
dome,  supported  on  Corinthian  pillars,  and  open  to  all  the 
winds.  The  edifice  is  beautiful  in  itself;  though  I  know 
not  what  peculiar  appropriateness  it  may  have,  as  the 
memorial  of  a  Scottish  rural  poet. 

The  door  of  the  basement  story  stood  open ;  and,  en 
lering,  we  saw  a  bust  of  Burns  in  a  niche,  looking  keener, 


244.     SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS. 

more  refined,  but  not  so  warm  and  whole-souled  as  his 
pictures  usually  do.  I  think  the  likeness  cannot  be  good. 
In  the  centre  of  the  room  stood  a  glass  case,  in  which  were 
reposited  the  two  volumes  of  the  little  Pocket- Bible  that 
Burns  gave  to  Highland  Mary,  when  they  pledged  their 
troth  to  one  another.  It  is  poorly  printed,  on  coarse 
paper.  A  verse  of  Scripture,  referring  to  the  solemnity 
and  awfulness  of  vows,  is  written  within  the  cover  of 
each  volume,  in  the  poet's  own  hand  ;  and  fastened  to 
one  of  the  covers  is  a  lock  of  Highland  Mary's  golden 
hair.  This  Bible  had  been  carried  to  America  by  one 
of  her  relatives,  but  was  sent  back  to  be  fitly  treasured 
here. 

There  is  a  staircase  within  the  monument,  by  which 
we  ascended  to  the  top,  and  had  a  view  of  both  Briggs 
of  Doon  ;  the  scene  of  Tarn  O'Shanter's  misadventure 
being  close  at  hand.  Descending,  we  wandered  through 
the  enclosed  garden,  and  came  to  a  little  building  in  a 
corner,  on  entering  which,  we  found  the  two  statues  of 
Tarn  and  Sutor  Wat,  —  ponderous  stone-work  enough, 
yet  permeated  in  a  remarkable  degree  with  living  warmth 
and  jovial  hilarity.  From  this  part  of  the  garden,  too, 
we  again  beheld  the  old  Brigg  of  Doon,  over  which  Tarn 
galloped  in  such  imminent  and  awful  peril.  It  is  a 
beautiful  object  in  the  landscape,  with  one  high,  graceful 
arch,  ivy-grown,  and  shadowed  all  over  and  around  with 
foliage. 

"When  we  had  waited  a  good  while,  the  old  gardener 
came,  telling  us  that  he  had  heard  an  excellent  prayer 
at  laying  the  corner-stone  of  the  new  kirk.  He  now 
gave  us  some  roses  and  sweetbrier,  and  let  us  out  from 
his  pleasant  garden.  We  immediately  hastened  to  Kirk 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS.      '245 

Alloway,  whic*?  is  withiu  two  or  three  minutes'  walk  of 
Hie  monument  A  few  steps  ascend  from  the  roadside, 
through  a  gate,  mto  the  old  graveyard,  in  the  midst  of 
which  stands  tho  kirk.  The  edifice  is  wholly  roofless, 
but  the  side-wall*  and  gable-ends  are  quite  entire,  though 
portions  of  thpm  are  evidently  modem  restorations. 
.Never  was  there  a  plainer  little  church,  or  one  with 
mailer  architectural  pretension  ;  no  New  England  meet 
ing-house  has  more  simplicity  in  its  very  self,  though 
poetry  and  fun  hare  clambered  and  clustered  so  wildly 
over  Kirk  Alloway  *\iat  it  is  difficult  to  see  it  as  it  actu 
ally  exists.  By  the  by,  I  do  not  understand  why  Satan 
and  an  assembly  of  witches  should  hold  their  revels 
within  a  consecrated  precinct ;  but  the  weird  scene  has 
BO  established  itself  in  the  world's  imaginative  faith 
that  it  must  be  accepted  $>s  an  authentic  incident,  in 
spite  of  rule  and  reason  to  the  contrary.  Possibly, 
some  carnal  minister,  some  priest  of  pious  aspect  and 
hidden  infidelity,  had  dispelled  the  consecration  of  the 
holy  edifice  by  his  pretence  of  prayer,  and  thus  made 
it  the  resort  of  unhappy  ghosts  and  sorcerers  and  devils. 

The  interior  of  the  kirk,  even  now,  is  applied  to  quitf 
as  impertinent  a  purpose  as  when  Satan  and  the  witches 
used  it  as  a  dancing-hall ;  for  it  is  divided  in  the  midsf 
by  a  wall  of  stone  masonry,  and  each  compartment  ha» 
been  converted  into  a  family  burial-place.  The  name  on 
one  of  the  monuments  is  Crawfurd ;  the  other  bore  no 
inscription.  It  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  the^e  good 
people,  whoever  they  way  be,  had  no  business  ir\  thrus\ 
their  prosaic  bones  into  a  spot  that  belongs  to  the  world, 
and  where  their  presence  jars  with  the  emotions,  be  they 
sad  or  gay,  which  the  pilgrim  brings  thither.  They  shut 


246      SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS. 

us  out  from  our  own  precincts,  too,  —  from  that  inalien 
able,  possession  which  Burns  bestowed  in  free  gift  upon 
mankind,  by  taking  it  from  the  actual  earth  and  annexing 
it  to  the  domain  of  imagination.  And  here  these  wretched 
squatters  have  lain  down  to  their  long  sleep,  after  barring 
each  of  the  two  doorways  of  the  kirk  with  an  iron  grate ! 
May  their  rest  be  troubled,  till  they  rise  and  let  us  in  ! 

Kirk  Alloway  is  inconceivably  small,  considering  how 
large  a  space  it  fills  in  our  imagination  before  we  see  it, 
I  paced  its  length,  outside  of  the  wall,  and  found  it  only 
seventeen  of  my  paces,  and  not  more  than  ten  of  them 
in  breadth.  There  seem  to  have  been  but  very  few 
windows,  all  of  which,  if  I  rightly  remember,  are  now 
blocked  up  with  mason-work  of  stone.  One  mullioned 
window,  tall  and  narrow,  in  the  eastern  gable,  might 
have  been  seen  by  Tarn  O'Shanter,  blazing  with  dev 
ilish  light,  as  he  approached  along  the  road  from  Ayr ; 
and  there  is  a  small  and  square  one,  on  the  side  nearest 
the  road,  into  which  he  might  have  peered,  as  he  sat  on 
horseback.  Indeed,  I  could  easily  have  looked  through 
it,  standing  on  the  ground,  had  not  the  opening  been 
walled  up.  There  is  an  odd  kind  of  belfry  at  the  peak 
of  one  of  the  gables,  with  the  small  bell  still  hanging  in  it. 
And  this  is  all  that  I  remember  of  Kirk  Alloway,  except 
that  the  stones  of  its  material  are  gray  and  irregular. 

The  road  from  Ayr  passes  Alloway  Kirk,  and  crosses 
the  Doon  by  a  modern  bridge,  without  swerving  much 
from  a  straight  line.  To  reach  the  old  bridge,  it  appears 
to  have  made  a  bend,  shortly  after  passing  the  kirk,  and 
then  to  have  turned  sharply  towards  the  river.  The  new 
bridge  is  within  a  minute's  walk  of  the  monument ;  and 
wo  went  thither,  and  leaned  over  its  parapet  to  admire 


SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS.      247 

the,  beautiful  Doon,  flowing  wildly  and  sweetly  between 
its  deep  and  wooded  banks.  I  never  saw  a  lovelier 
scene  ;  although  this  might  have  been  even  lovelier,  if  a 
kindly  sun  had  shone  upon  it.  The  ivy-grown,  ancient 
bridge,  with  its  high  arch,  through  which  we  had  a  pic 
ture  of  the  river  and  the  green  banks  beyond,  was  abso 
lutely  the  most  picturesque  object,  in  a  quiet  and  gentle 
way,  that  ever  blessed  my  eyes.  Bonny  Doon,  with  its 
wooded  banks,  and  the  boughs  dipping  into  the  water ! 
The  memory  of  them,  at  this  moment,  affects  me  like  the 
song  of  birds,  and  Burns  crooning  some  verses,  simple 
and  wild,  in  accordance  with  their  native  melody. 

It  u  as  impossible  to  depart  without  crossing  the  very 
bridge  of  Tarn's  adventure ;  so  we  went  thither,  over  a 
now  disused  portion  of  the  road,  and,  standing  on  the 
centre  of  the  arch,  gathered  some  ivy-leaves  from  that 
sacred  spot.  This  done,  we  returned  as  speedily  as  might 
be  to  Ayr,  whence,  taking  the  rail,  we  soon  beheld  Ailsa 
Craig  rising  like  a  pryamid  out  of  the  sea.  Drawing 
nearer  to  Glasgow,  Ben  Lomond  hove  in  sight,  with  a 
dome-like  summit,  supported  by  a  shoulder  on  each  side. 
But  a  man  is  better  than  a  mountain  ;  and  we  had  been 
holding  intercourse,  if  not  with  the  reality,  at  least  with 
the  stalwart  ghost  of  one  of  Earth's  memorable  sons, 
amid  the  scenes  where  he  lived  and  sung.  We  shall 
appreciate  him  better  as  a  poet,  hereafter ;  for  there  is 
no  writer  whose  life,  as  a  man,  has  so  much  to  do  with 
his  fame,  and  throws  such  a  necessary  light  upon  what 
ever  he  has  produced.  Henceforth,  there  will  be  a  per 
sonal  warmth  for  us  in  everything  that  he  wrote  ;  and, 
like  his  countrymen,  we  shall  know  him  in  a  kind  of 
personal  way,  as  if  we  had  shaken  hands  with  him,  and 
felt  the  tlirill  of  his  actual  voice. 


A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

ONE  of  our  English  summers  looks,  in  the  retrospect, 
as  if  it  had  been  patched  with  more  frequent  sunshine 
than  the  sky  of  England  ordinarily  affords ;  but  I  be 
lieve  that  it  may  be  only  a  moral  effect,  —  a  "  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  nor  land,"  —  caused  by  our  having  found 
a  particularly  delightful  abode  in  the  neighborhood  of 
London.  In  order  to  enjoy  it,  however,  I  was  compelled 
to  solve  the  problem  of  living  in  two  places  at  once,  — 
an  impossibility  which  I  so  far  accomplished  as  to  vanish, 
at  frequent  intervals,  out  of  men's  sight  and  knowledge 
on  one  side  of  England,  and  take  my  place  in  a  circle  of 
familiar  faces  on  the  other,  so  quietly  that  I  seemed  to 
have  been  there  all  along.  It  was  the  easier  to  get 
accustomed  to  our  new  residence,  because  it  was  not  only 
rich  in  all  the  material  properties  of  a  home,  but  had  also 
the  home-like  atmosphere,  the  household  element,  which 
is  of  too  intangible  a  character  to  be  let  even  with  the 
most  thoroughly  furnished  lodging-house.  A  friend  had 
given  us  his  suburban  residence,  with  all  its  conven 
iences,  elegances,  and  snuggeries,  —  its  drawing-rooma 
and  library,  still  warm  and  bright  with  the  recollection 
of  the  genial  presences  that  we  had  known  there,  —  its 
closets,  chambers,  kitchen,  and  even  its  wine-cellar,  if  wo 
could  have  availed  ourselves  of  so  dear  and  delicate  a 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  249 

trust,  —  its  lawn  and  cosey  garden-nooks,  and  whatever 
else  makes  up  the  multitudinous  idea  of  an  English 
home,  —  he  had  transferred  it  all  to  us,  pilgrims  and 
dusty  wayfarers,  that  we  might  rest  and  take  our  ease 
during  his  summer's  absence  on  the  Continent.  We  had 
long  been  dwelling  in  tents,  as  it  were,  and  morally  shiv 
ering  by  hearths  which,  heap  the  bituminous  coal  upon 
them  as  we  might,  no  blaze  could  render  cheerful.  I 
remember,  to  this  day,  the  dreary  feeling  with  which  I 
sat  by  our  first  English  fireside,  and  watched  tne  chill  and 
rainy  twilight  of  an  autumn  day  darkening  down  upon 
the  garden ;  while  the  portrait  of  the  preceding  occupant 
of  the  house  (evidently  a  most  unamiable  j><srsonage  in 
his  lifetime)  scowled  inhospitably  from  above  the  mantel 
piece,  as  if  indignant  that  an  American  should  try  to 
make  himself  at  home  there.  Possibly  it  may  appease 
his  sulky  shade  to  know  that  I  quitted  his  abode  as  much 
a  stranger  as  I  entered  it.  But  now,  at  last,  we  were  in 
a  genuine  British  home,  where  refined  and  warm-hearted 
people  had  just  been  living  their  daily  life,  and  had  left 
us  a  summer's  inheritance  of  slowly  ripened  days,  such 
as  a  stranger's  hasty  opportunities  so  seldom  permit  him 
to  enjoy. 

"Within  so  trifling  a  distance  of  the  central  spot  of  all 
the  world,  (which,  as  Americans  have  at  present  no  cen 
tre  of  their  own,  we  may  allow  to  be  somewhere  in  the 
vicinity,  we  will  say,  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,)  it  might 
have  seemed  natural  that  I  should  be  tossed  about  by  the 
turbulence  of  the  vast  London  whirlpool.  But  I  had 
drifted  into  a  still  eddy,  where  conflicting  movements 
made  a  repose,  and,  wearied  with  a  good  deal  of  uncon 
genial  activity,  I  found  the  quiet  of  my  temporary  haveu 


250  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

more  attractive  than  anything  that  the  great  town  could 
offer.  I  already  knew  London  well ;  that  is  to  say,  I 
had  long  ago  satisfied  (so  far  as  it  was  capable  of  satis 
faction)  that  mysterious  yearning  —  the  magnetism  of 
millions  of  hearts  operating  upon  one  —  which  impels 
every  man's  individuality  to  mingle  itself  with  the  im- 
mensest  mass  of  human  life  within  his  scope.  Day  after 
day,  at  an  earlier  period,  I  had  trodden  the  thronged 
thoroughfares,  the  broad,  lonely  squares,  the  lanes,  alleys, 
and  strange  labyrinthine  courts,  the  parks,  the  gardens 
and  enclosures  of  ancient  studious  societies,  so  retired  and 
silent  amid  the  city-uproar,  the  markets,  the  foggy  streets 
along  the  riverside,  the  bridges,  —  I  had  sought  all  parts 
of  the  metropolis,  in  short,  with  an  unweariable  and  in- 
discriminating  curiosity ;  until  few  of  the  native  inhab 
itants,  I  fancy,  had  turned  so  many  of  its  corners  as 
myself.  These  aimless  wanderings  (in  which  my  prime 
purpose  and  achievement  were  to  lose  my  way,  and  so 
to  tind  it  the  more  surely)  had  brought  me,  at  one  time 
or  another,  to  the  sight  and  actual  presence  of  almost  all 
the  objects  and  renowned  localities  that  I  had  read  about, 
and  which  had  made  London  the  dream-city  of  my  youth. 
I  had  found  it  better  than  my  dream  ;  for  there  is  noth 
ing  else  in  life  comparable  (in  that  species  of  enjoyment, 
I  mean)  to  the  thick,  heavy,  oppressive,  sombre  delight 
which  an  American  is  sensible  of,  hardly  knowing  whether 
to  call  it  a  pleasure  or  a  pain,  in  the  atmosphere  of  Lon 
don.  The  result  was,  that  I  acquired  a  home-feeling 
there,  as  nowhere  else  in  the  world,  —  though  afterwards 
I  came  to  have  a  somewhat  similar  sentiment  in  regard 
:o  Rome  ;  and  as  long  as  either  of  those  two  great  cities 
shall  exist,  the  cities  of  the  Past  and  of  the  Present,  a 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  251 

man's  native  soil  may  crumble  beneath  his  feet  without 
leaving  him  altogether  homeless  upon  earth. 

Thus,  having  once  fully  yielded  to  its  influence,  I  was 
in  a  manner  free  of  the  city,  and  could  approach  or  keep 
away  from  it  as  I  pleased.  Hence  it  happened,  that,  liv 
ing  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  rush  of  the  London 
Bridge  Terminus,  I  was  oftener  tempted  to  spend  a 
whole  summer-day  in  our  garden  than  to  seek  anything 
new  or  old,  wonderful  or  commonplace,  beyond  its  pre 
cincts.  It  was  a  delightful  garden,  of  no  great  extent, 
but  comprising  a  good  many  facilities  for  repose  and 
enjoyment,  such  as  arbors  and  garden-seats,  shrubbery, 
flower-beds,  rose-bushes  in  a  profusion  of  bloom,  pinks, 
poppies,  geraniums,  sweet-peas,  and  a  variety  of  other 
scarlet,  yellow,  blue,  and  purple  blossoms,  which  I  did 
not  trouble  myself  to  recognize  individually,  yet  had  al 
ways  a  vague  sense  of  their  beauty  about  me.  The  dim 
sky  of  England  has  a  most  happy  effect  on  the  coloring 
of  flowers,  blending  richness  with  delicacy  in  the  same 
texture  ;  but  in  this  garden,  as  everywhere  else,  the  ex 
uberance  of  English  verdure  had  a  greater  charm  than 
any  tropical  splendor  or  diversity  of  hue.  The  hunger 
for  natural  beauty  might  be  satisfied  with  grass  and  green 
leaves  forever.  Conscious  of  the  triumph  of  England  in 
this  respect,  and  loyally  anxious  for  the  credit  of  my  own 
country,  it  gratified  me  to  observe  what  trouble  and  pains 
the  English  gardeners  are  fain  to  throw  away  in  pro 
ducing  a  few  sour  plums  and  abortive  pears  and  apples  -- 
as,  for  example,  in  this  very  garden,  where  a  row  of  un 
happy  trees  were  spread  out  perfectly  flat  against  a  brick 
wall,  looking  as  if  impaled  alive,  or  crucified,  with  a  cruel 
and  unattainable  purpose  of  compelling  them  to  produce 


252  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

rich  fruit  by  torture.  For  my  part,  I  never  ate  an  Eng 
lish  fruit,  raised  in  the  open  air,  that  could  compare  in 
flavor  with  a  Yankee  turnip. 

The  garden  included  that  prime  feature  of  English  do 
mestic  scenery,  a  lawn.  It  had  been  levelled,  carefully 
shorn,  and  converted  into  a  bowling-green,  on  which  wo 
sometimes  essayed  to  practise  the  time-honored  game  of 
bowls,  most  unskilfully,  yet  not  without  a  perception  that 
it  involves  a  very  pleasant  mixture  of  exercise  and  ease, 
as  is  the  case  with  most  of  the  old  English  pastimes. 
Our  little  domain  was  shut  in  by  the  house  on  one  side, 
and  in  other  directions  by  a  hedge-fence  and  a  brick  wall, 
which  last  was  concealed  or  softened  by  shrubbery  and 
the  impaled  fruit-trees  already  mentioned.  Over  all  the 
outer  region,  beyond  our  immediate  precincts,  there  was 
an  abundance  of  foliage,  tossed  aloft  from  the  near  or 
distant  trees  with  which  that  agreeable  suburb  is  adorned. 
The  effect  was  wonderfully  sylvan  and  rural,  insomuch 
that  we  might  have  fancied  ourselves  in  the  depths  of  a 
wooded  seclusion ;  only  that,  at  brief  intervals,  we  could 
hear  the  galloping  sweep  of  a  railway  train  passing  within 
a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  its  discordant  screech,  moder 
ated  by  a  little  farther  distance,  as  it  reached  the  Black- 
heath  Station.  That  harsh,  rough  sound,  seeking  me  out 
so  inevitably,  was  the  voice  of  the  great  world  summon 
ing  me  forth.  I  know  not  whether  I  was  the  more  paine*. 
or  pleased  to  be  thus  constantly  put  in  mind  of  the  neigh 
borhood  of  London  ;  for,  on  the  one  hand,  my  conscience 
stung  me  a  little  for  reading  a  book,  or  playing  with  chil 
dren  in  the  grass,  when  there  were  so  many  better  things 
for  an  enlightened  traveller  to  do,  —  while,  at  the  same 
time,  it  gave  a  deeper  delight  to  my  luxurious  idleness, 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  253 

to  contrast  it  with  the  turmoil  which  I  escaped.  On  the 
whole,  however,  I  do  not  repent  of  a  single  wasted  hour, 
and  only  wish  that  I  could  have  spent  twice  as  many  in 
the  same  way  ;  for  the  impression  on  my  memory  is,  that 
I  was  as  happy  in  that  hospitable  garden  as  the  English 
summer-day  was  long. 

One  chief  condition  of  my  enjoyment  was  the  weather. 
Italy  has  nothing  like  it,  nor  America.  There  never  was 
Buch  weather  except  in  England,  where,  in  requital  of  a 
vast  amount  of  horrible  east-wind  between  February  and 
June,  and  a  brown  October  and  black  November,  and  a 
wet,  chill,  sunless  winter,  there  are  a  few  weeks  of  in 
comparable  summer,  scattered  through  July  and  August, 
and  the  earlier  portion  of  September,  small  in  quantity, 
but  exquisite  enough  to  atone  for  the  whole  year's  atmos 
pherical  delinquencies.  After  all,  the  prevalent  sombre- 
ness  may  have  brought  out  those  sunny  intervals  in  such 
high  relief,  that  I  see  them,  in  my  recollection,  brighter 
than  they  really  were :  a  little  light  makes  a  glory  for 
people  who  live  habitually  in  a  gray  gloom.  The  Eng 
lish,  however,  do  not  seem  to  know  how  .enjoyable  the 
momentary  gleams  of  their  summer  are  ;  they  call  it 
broiling  weather,  and  hurry  to  the  seaside  with  red,  per 
spiring  faces,  in  a  state  of  combustion  and  deliquescence ; 
and  I  have  observed  that  even  their  cattle  have  similar 
susceptibilities,  seeking  the  deepest  shade,  or  standing 
mid-leg  deep  in  pools  and  streams  to  cool  themselves,  at 
temperatures  which  our  own  cows  would  deem  little  more 
than  barely  comfortable.  To  myself,  after  the  summer 
heats  of  my  native  land  had  somewhat  effervesced  out 
of  my  blood  and  memory,  it  was  the  weather  of  Paradise 
itself.  It  might  be  a  little  too  wftrm;  but  it  was  that 


254  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

modest  and  inestimable  superabundance  which  constitutes 
a  bounty  of  Providence,  instead  of  just  a  niggardly 
enough.  During  my  first  year  in  England,  residing  in 
perhaps  the  most  ungenial  part  of  the  kingdom,  I  could 
never  be  quite  comfortable  without  a  fire  on  the  hearth ; 
in  the  second  twelvemonth,  beginning  to  get  acclimatized, 
I  became  sensible  of  an  austere  friendliness,  shy,  but  some 
times  almost  tender,  in  the  veiled,  shadowy,  seldom  smil 
ing  summer ;  and  in  the  succeeding  years  —  whether 
that  I  had  renewed  my  fibre  with  English  beef  and  re 
plenished  niy  blood  with  English  ale,  or  whatever  were 
the  cause  —  I  grew  content  with  winter  and  especially  in 
love  with  summer,  desiring  little  more  for  happiness  than 
merely  to  breathe  and  bask.  At  the  midsummer  which 
we  are  now  speaking  of,  I  must  needs  confess  that  the 
noontide  sun  came  down  more  fervently  than  I  found  al 
together  tolerable  ;  so  that  I  was  fain  to  slvft  my  position 
with  the  shadow  of  the  shrubbery,  making  myself  the 
movable  index  of  a  sundial  that  reckoned  up  the  hours 
of  an  almost  interminable  day. 

For  each  day  seemed  endless,  though  never  wearisome. 
As  far  as  your  actual  experience  is  concerned,  the  English 
summer-day  has  positively  no  beginning  and  no  end. 
When  you  awake,  at  any  reasonable  hour,  the  sun  is 
already  shining  through  the  curtains  ;  you  live  through 
unnumbered  hours  of  Sabbath  quietude,  with  a  calm 
variety  of  incident  softly  etched  upon  their  tranquil 
lapse  ;  and  at  length  you  become  conscious  that  it  is 
bedtime  again,  while  there  is  still  enough  daylight  in 
the  sky  to  make  the  pages  of  your  book  distinctly  legible. 
Night,  if  there  be  any  such  season,  hangs  down  a  trans 
parent  veil  through  which  the  by-gone  day  beholds  ite 


A  LONDON    SUBURB.  255 

successor ;  or,  if  not  quite  true  of  the  latitude  of  London, 
it  may  be  soberly  affirmed  of  the  more  northern  parts  of 
the  island,  that  To-morrow  is  born  before  its  Yesterday  ia 
dead.  They  exist  together  in  the  golden  twilight,  where 
the  decrepit  old  day  dimly  discerns  the  face  of  the  omi 
nous  infant ;  and  you,  though  a  mere  mortal,  may  simul 
taneously  touch  them  both,  with  one  finger  of  recollection 
and  another  of  prophecy.  I  cared  not  how  long  the  day 
might  be,  nor  how  many  of  them.  I  had  earned  this 
repose  by  a  long  course  of  irksome  toil  and  perturba 
tion,  and  could  have  been  content  never  to  stray  out  of 
the  limits  of  that  suburban  villa  and  its  garden.  If  I 
lacked  anything  beyond,  it  would  have  satisfied  me  well 
enough  to  dream  about  it,  instead  of  struggling  for  its 
actual  possession.  At  least,  this  was  the  feeling  of  the 
moment ;  although  the  transitory,  flitting,  and  irrespon 
sible  character  of  my  life  there  was  perhaps  the  most 
enjoyable  element  of  all,  as  allowing  me  much  of  the 
comfort  of  house  and  home  without  any  sense  of  their 
weight  upon  my  back.  The  nomadic  life  has  great  ad 
vantages,  if  we  can  find  tents  ready  pitched  for  us  at 
every  stage. 

So  much  for  the  interior  of  our  abode,  —  a  spot  of 
deepest  quiet,  within  reach  of  the  intensest  activity. 
But,  even  when  we  stepped  beyond  our  own  gate,  we 
were  not  shocked  with  any  immediate  presence  of  the 
great  world.  We  were  dwelling  in  one  of  those  oases 
that  have  grown  up  (in  comparatively  recent  years,  I  be 
lieve)  on  the  wide  waste  of  Blackheath,  which  otherwise 
otters  a  vast  extent  of  unoccupied  ground  in  singular 
proximity  to  the  metropolis.  As  a  general  thing,  the 
proprietorship  of  the  soil  seems  to  exist  in  everybody 


256  A.  LONDON  SUBURB. 

and  nobody ;  but  exclusive  rights  have  been  obtained, 
here  and  there,  chiefly  by  men  whose  daily  concerns  link 
them  with  London,  so  that  you  find  their  villas  or  boxes 
standing  along  village  streets  which  have  often  more  of 
an  American  aspect  than  the  elder  English  settlements. 
The  scene  is  semi-rural.  Ornamental  trees  overshadow 
the  sidewalks,  and  grassy  margins  border  the  wheel* 
tracks.  The  houses,  to  be  sure,  have  certain  points  of 
difference  from  those  of  an  American  village,  bearing 
tokens  of  architectural  design,  though  seldom  of  indi 
vidual  taste  ;  and,  as  far  as  possible,  they  stand  aloof 
from  the  street,  and  separated  each  from  its  neighbor  by- 
hedge  or  fence,  in  accordance  with  the  careful  exclusive- 
ness  of  the  English  character,  which  impels  the  occupant, 
moreover,  to  cover  the  front  of  his  dwelling  with  as 
much  concealment  of  shrubbery  as  his  limits  will  allow. 
Through  the  interstices,  you  catch  glimpses  of  well-kept 
lawns,  generally  ornamented  with  flowers,  and  with  what 
the  English  call  rock- work,  being  heaps  of  ivy-grown 
stones  and  fossils,  designed  for  romantic  effect  in  a  small 
way.  Two  or  three  of  such  village  streets  as  are  here 
described  take  a  collective  name,  —  as,  for  instance,  Black- 
heath  Park,  —  and  constitute  a  kind  of  community  of 
residents,  with  gateways,  kept  by  a  policeman,  and  a 
semi-privacy,  stepping  beyond  which,  you  find  yourself 
O-i  the  breezy  heath. 

On  this  great,  bare,  dreary  common  I  often  went  astray, 
us  I  afterwards  did  on  the  Campagna  of  Rome,  and  drew 
the  air  (tainted  with  London  smoke  though  it  might  be) 
into  my  lungs  by  deep  inspirations,  with  a  strange  and 
unexpected  sense  of  desert  freedom.  The  misty  atmos 
phcre  helps  you  to  fancy  a  remoteness  that  perhaps  does 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  257 

not  quite  exist.  During  the  little  time  that  it  lasts,  the 
solitude  is  as  impressive  as  that  of  a  Western  prairie  or 
forest ;  but  soon  the  railway  shriek,  a  mile  or  two  away, 
insists  upon  informing  you  of  your  whereabout ;  or  you 
recognize  in  the  distance  some  landmark  that  you  may 
have  known,  —  an  insulated  villa,  perhaps,  with  its  gar 
den  wall  around  it,  or  the  rudimental  street  of  a  new 
settlement  which  is  sprouting  on  this  otherwise  barren 
soil.  Half  a  century  ago,  the  most  frequent  token  of 
man's  beneficent  contiguity  might  have  been  a  gibbet,  and 
the  creak,  like  a  tavern  sign,  of  a  murderer  swinging  to 
and  fro  in  irons.  Blackheath,  with  its  highwaymen  and 
footpads,  was  dangerous  in  those  days  ;  and  even  now, 
for  aught  I  know,  the  Western  prairie  may  still  compare 
favorably  with  it  as  a  safe  region  to  go  astray  in.  When 
I  was  acquainted  with  Blackheath,  the  ingenious  device 
of  garroting  had  recently  come  into  fashion  ;  and  I  can 
remember,  while  crossing  those  waste  places  at  midnight, 
and  hearing  footsteps  behind  me,  to  have  been  sensibly 
encouraged  by  also  hearing,  not  far  off,  the  clinking  hoof- 
tramp  of  one  of  the  horse-patrols  who  do  regular  duty 
there.  About  sunset,  or  a  little  later,  was  the  time  when 
the  broad  and  somewhat  desolate  peculiarity  of  the 
heath  seemed  to  me  to  put  on  its  utmost  impressiveness. 
At  that  hour,  finding  myself  on  elevated  ground,  I  once 
had  a  view  of  immense  London,  four  or  five  miles  off, 
with  the  vast  Dome  in  the  midst,  and  the  towers  of  the 
two  Houses  of  Parliament  rising  up  into  the  smoky 
*  canopy,  the  thinner  substance  of  which  obscured  a  mass 
of  things,  and  hovered  about  the  objects  that  were  rxiost 
distinctly  visible,  —  a  glorious  and  sombre  picture,  dusky, 
awful,  but  irresistibly  attractive,  like  a  young  man's  dream 
17 


258  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

of  the  great  world,  foretelling  at  that  distance  a  grandeur 
never  to  be  fully  realized. 

While  I  lived  in  that  neighborhood,  the  tents  of  two  or 
three  sets  of  cricket-players  were  constantly  pitched  on 
Blackheath,  and  matches  were  going  forward  that  seemed 
to  involve  the  honor  and  credit  of  communities  or  coun 
ties,  exciting  an  interest  in  everybody  but  myself,  who 
(tared  not  what  part  of  England  might  glorify  itself  at 
the  expense  of  another.  It  is  necessary  to  be  born  an 
Englishman,  I  believe,  in  order  to  enjoy  this  great  na 
tional  game ;  at  any  rate,  as  a  spectacle  for  an  outside 
observer,  I  found  it  lazy,  lingering,  tedious,  and  utterly 
devoid  of  pictorial  effects.  Choice  of  other  amusements 
was  at  hand.  Butts  for  archery  were  established,  and 
bows  and  arrows  were  to  be  let,  at  so  many  shots  for  a 
penny,  —  there  being  abundance  of  space  for  a  farther 
flight-shot  than  any  modern  archer  can  lend  to  his  shaft. 
Then  there  was  an  absurd  game  of  throwing  a  stick  at 
ciockery  ware,  which  I  have  witnessed  a  hundred  times, 
and  personally  engaged  in  once  or  twice,  without  ever 
having  the  satisfaction  to  see  a  bit  of  broken  crockery. 
In  other  spots  you  found  donkeys  for  children  to  ride,  and 
ponies  of  a  very  meek  and  patient  spirit,  on  which  the 
Cockney  pleasure  seekers  of  both  sexes  rode  races  and 
made  wonderful  displays  of  horsemanship.  By  way 
of  refreshment  there  was  gingerbread,  (but,  as  a  true 
patriot,  I  must  pronounce  it  greatly  inferior  to  our  native 
dainty,)  and  ginger-beer,  and  probably  stancher  liquor 
among  the  booth-keeper's  hidden  stores.  The  frequent 
railway  trains,  as  well  as  the  numerous  steamers  to  Green 
wich,  have  made  the  vacant  portions  of  Blackheath  a  play 
ground  and  breathing-place  for  the  Londoners,  readily  and 


A   LONDON   SUBURB.  259 

very  cheaply  accessible ;  so  that,  in  view  of  this  broader 
use  and  enjoyment,  I  a  little  grudged  the  tracts  that  have 
been  filched  away,  so  to  speak,  and  individualized  by 
thriving  citizens.  One  sort  of  visitors  especially  interested 
me  :  they  were  schools  of  little  boys  or  girls,  under  the 
guardianship  of  their  instructors,  —  charity  schools,  as  I 
often  surmised  from  their  aspect,  collected  among  dark 
alleys  and  squalid  courts  ;  and  hither  they  were  brought 
to  spend  a  summer  afternoon,  these  pale  little  progeny  of 
the  sunless  nooks  of  London,  who  had  never  known  that 
the  sky  was  any  broader  than  that  narrow  and  vapory 
strip  above  their  native  lane.  I  fancied  that  they  took 
but  a  doubtful  pleasure,  being  half  affrighted  at  the  wide, 
empty  space  overhead  and  round  about  them,  finding  the 
air  too  little  medicated  with  smoke,  soot,  and  graveyard 
exhalations,  to  be  breathed  with  comfort,  and  feeling  shel 
terless  and  lost  because  grimy  London,  their  slatternly 
and  disreputable  mother,  had  suffered  them  to  stray  out 
of  her  arms. 

Passing  among  these  holiday  people,  we  come  to  one 
of  the  gateways  of  Greenwich  Park,  opening  through 
an  old  brick  wall.  It  admits  us  from  the  bare  heath 
into  a  scene  of  antique  cultivation  and  woodland  orna 
ment,  traversed  in  all  directions  by  avenues  of  trees, 
many  of  which  bear  tokens  of  a  venerable  age.  These 
broad  and  well-kept  pathways  rise  and  decline  over  the 
elevations  and  along  the  bases  of  gentle  hills  which 
diversify  the  whole  surface  of  the  Park.  The  loftiest 
1  and  most  abrupt  of  them  (though  but  of  very  moderate 
height)  is  one  of  the  earth's  noted  summits,  and  may  hold 
up  its  head  with  Mont  Blanc  and  Chimborazo,  as  being 
the  site  of  Greenwich  Observatory,  where,  if  all  nations 


260  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

will  consent  to  say  so,  the  longitude  of  our  great  globe 
begins.  I  used  to  regulate  my  watch  by  the  broad  dial- 
plate  against  the  Observatory  wall,  and  felt  it  pleasant  to 
be  standing  at  the  very  centre  of  Time  and  Space. 

There  are  lovelier  parks  than  this  in  the  neighborhood 
of  London,  richer  scenes  of  greensward  and  cultivated 
trees  ;  and  Kensington,  especially,  in  a  summer  after 
noon,  has  seemed  to  me  as  delightful  as  any  place  can  01 
ought  to  be,  in  a  world  which,  some  time  or  other,  we 
must  quit.  But  Greenwich,  too,  is  beautiful,  —  a  spot 
where  the  art  of  man  has  conspired  with  Nature,  as  if  lie 
and  the  great  mother  had  taken  counsel  together  how  to 
make  a  plea-sant  scene,  and  the  longest  liver  of  the,  two 
had  faithfully  carried  out  their  mutual  design.  It  has, 
likewise,  an  additional  charm  of  its  own,  because,  to  all 
appearance,  it  is  the  people's  property  and  play-ground 
in  a  much  more  genuine  way  than  the  aristocratic  resorts 
in  closer  vicinity  to  the  metropolis.  It  affords  one  of  the 
instances  in  which  the  monarch's  property  is  actually  the 
people's,  and  shows  how  much  m^re  natural  is  their 
relation  to  the  sovereign  than  to  the  nobility,  which  pre 
tends  to  hold  the  intervening  opace  between  the  two  :  for 
u  nobleman  makes  a  paradise  only  for  himself,  and  fills  it 
with  his  own  pomp  and  pride  ;  whereas  the  people  are 
sooner  or  later  the  legitimate  inheritors  of  whatever 
beauty  kings  and  queens  create,  as  now  of  Greenwich 
Park.  On  Sundays,  when  the  sun  shone,  and  even  on 
those  grim  and  sombre  days  when,  if  it  do  not  actually 
rain,  the  English  persist  in  calling  it  fine  weather,  it  was 
too  good  to  see  how  sturdily  the  plebeians  trod  under  their 
own  oaks,  and  what  fulness  of  simple  enjoyment  they 
evidently  found  there  They  were  the  people,  —  not  the 


A   LONDON   SUBURB.  261 

populace,  —  specimens  of  a  class  whose  Sunday  clothes 
are  a  distinct  kind  of  garb  from  their  week-day  ones ; 
and  this,  in  England,  implies  wholesome  habits  of  life, 
daily  thrift,  and  a  rank  above  the  lowest.  I  longed  to  be 
acquainted  with  them,  in  order  to  investigate  what  man 
ner  of  folks  they  were,  what  sort  of  households  they  kept, 
their  politics,  their  religion,  their  tastes,  and  whether  they 
were  as  narrow-minded  as  their  betters.  There  can  be 
vrery  little  doubt  of  it :  an  Englishman  is  English,  in 
whatever  rank  of  life,  though  no  more  intensely  so,  I 
should  imagine,  as  an  artisan  or  petty  shopkeeper,  than 
as  a  member  of  Parliament. 

The  English  character,  as  I  conceive  it,  is  by  no  means 
a  very  lofty  one  ;  they  seem  to  have  a  great  deal  of  earth 
and  grimy  dust  clinging  about  them,  as  was  probably 
the  case  with  the  stalwart  and  quarrelsome  people  who 
sprouted  up  out  of  the  soil,  after  Cadmus  had  sown  the 
dragon's  teeth.  And  yet,  though  the  individual  English 
man  is  sometimes  preternaturally  disagreeable,  an  ob 
server  standing  aloof  has  a  sense  of  natural  kindness 
towards  them  in  the  lump.  They  adhere  closer  to  the 
original  simplicity  in  which  mankind  was  created  than 
we  ourselves  do ;  they  love,  quarrel,  laugh,  cry,  and  turn 
their  actual  selves  inside  out,  with  greater  freedom  than 
any  class  of  Americans  would  consider  decorous.  It  was 
often  so  with  these  holiday  folks  in  Greenwich  Park  ; 
and,  ridiculous  as  it  may  sound,  I  fancy  myself  to  have 
caught  very  satisfactory  glimpses  of  Arcadian  life  among 
the  Cockneys  there,  hardly  beyond  the  scope  of  Bow- 
Bells,  picnicking  in  the  grass,  uncouthly  gambolling  on 
the  broad  slopes,  or  straying  in  motley  groups  or  by  sin 
gle  pairs  of  lovemaking  youths  and  maidens,  along  the 


262  A   LONDON   SUBURB. 

sun-streaked  avenues.  Even  the  omnipresent  policemen 
or  park-keepers  could  not  disturb  the  beatific  impression 
on  my  mind.  One  feature,  at  all  events,  of  the  Golden 
Age  was  to  be  seen  in  the  herds  of  deer  that  encountered 
you  in  the  somewhat  remoter  recesses  of  the  Park,  and 
were  readily  prevailed  upon  to  nibble  a  bit  of  bread  out 
of  your  hand.  But,  though  no  wrong  had  ever  been 
done  them,  and  no  horn  had  sounded  nor  hound  bayed  at 
the  heels  of  themselves  or  their  antlered  progenitors,  for 
centuries  past,  there  was  still  an  apprehensiveness  linger 
ing  in  their  hearts  ;  so  that  a  slight  movement  of  the 
hand  or  a  step  too  near  would  send  a  whole  squadron 
of  them  scampering  away,  just  as  a  breath  scatters  the 
winged  seeds  of  a  dandelion. 

The  aspect  of  Greenwich  Park,  with  all  those  fes 
tal  people  wandering  through  it,  resembled  that  of  the 
Borghese  Gardens  under  the  walls  of  Rome,  on  a  Sunday 
or  Saint's  day ;  but,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say,  it  a  little 
disturbed  whatever  grimly  ghost  of  Puritanic  strictness 
might  be  lingering  in  the  sombre  depths  of  a  New  Kng- 
land  heart,  among  severe  and  sunless  remembrances  of 
the  Sabbaths  of  childhood,  and  pangs  of  remorse  for  ill- 
gotten  lessons  in  the  catechism,  and  for  erratic  fantasies 
or  hardly  suppressed  laughter  in  the  middle  of  long  ser 
mons.  Occasionally,  I  tried  to  take  the  long-hoarded 
sdng  out  of  these  compunctious  smarts  by  attending 
divine  service  in  the  open  air.  On  a  cart  outside  of  the 
Park-wall  (and,  if  1  mistake  not,  at  two  or  three  corners 
and  secluded  spots  within  the  Park  itself)  a  Methodist 
preacher  uplifts  his  voice  and  speedily  gathers  a  congre 
gation,  his  zeal  for  whose  religious  welfare  impels  the 
good  man  to  such  earnest  vociferation  and  toilsome  ges- 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  203 

ture  that  hig  perspiring  face  is  quickly  in  a  stew.  His 
inward  flame  conspires  with  the  too  fervid  sun  and  makes 
a  positive  martyr  of  him,  even  in  the  very  exercise  of  hia 
pious  labor ;  insomuch  that  he  purchases  every  atom  of 
spiritual  increment  to  his  hearers  by  loss  of  his  own  cor 
poreal  solidity,  and,  should  his  discourse  last  long  enough, 
must  finally  exhale  before  their  eyes.  If  I  smile  at  him, 
be  it  understood,  it  is  not  in  scorn  ;  he  performs  his  sacred 
Dffice  more  acceptably  than  many  a  prelate.  These  way 
side  services  attract  numbers  who  would  not  otherwise 
listen  to  prayer,  sermon,  or  hymn,  from  one  year's  end  to 
another,  and  who,  for  that  very  reason,  are  the  auditors 
most  likely  to  be  moved  by  the  preacher's  eloquence. 
Yonder  Greenwich  pensioner,  too,  —  in  his  costume  of 
three-cornered  hat,  and  old-fashioned,  brass-buttoned  blue 
coat  with  ample  skirts,  which  makes  him  look  like  a  con 
temporary  of  Admiral  Benbow,  —  that  tough  old  mariner 
may  hear  a  word  or  two  which  will  go  nearer  his  heart 
than  anything  that  the  chaplain  of  the  Hospital  can  be 
expected  to  deliver.  I  always  noticed,  moreover,  that  a 
considerable  proportion  of  the  audience  were  soldiers, 
who  came  hither  with  a  day's  leave  from  Woolwich,  — 
hardy  veterans  in  aspect,  some  of  whom  wore  as  many 
as  four  or  five  medals,  Crimean  or  East-Indian,  on  the 
breasts  of  their  scarlet  coats.  The  miscellaneous  congre 
gation  listen  with  every  appearance  of  heartfelt  interest ; 
and,  for  my  own  part,  I  must  frankly  acknowledge  that  I 
never  found  it  possible  to  give  five  minutes'  attention  to 
any  other  English  preaching :  so  cold  and  commonplace 
are  the  homilies  that  pass  for  such,  under  the  aged  roofs 
of  churches.  And  as  for  cathedrals,  the  sermon  is  an 
exceedingly  diminutive  and  unimportant  part  of  the  relig- 


264  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

ious  services,  —  if,  indeed,  it  be  considered  a  part,-— 
among  the  pompous  ceremonies,  the  intonations,  and  the 
resounding  and  lofty-voiced  strains  of  the  choristers.  The 
magnificence  of  the  setting  quite  dazzles  out  what  we 
Puritans  look  upon  as  the  jewel  of  the  whole  affair ;  for 
I  presume  that  it  was  our  forefathers,  the  Dissenters  in 
England  and  America,  who  gave  the  sermon  its  present 
prominence  in  the  Sabbath  exercises. 

The  Methodists  are  probably  the  first  and  only  English 
men  who  have  worshipped  in  the  open  air  since  the  an 
cient  Britons  listened  to  the  preaching  of  the  Druids  ; 
and  it  reminded  me  of  that  old  priesthood,  to  see  certain 
memorials  of  their  dusky  epoch  —  not  religious,  however, 
but  warlike  —  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  spot  where  the 
Methodist  was  holding  forth.  These  were  some  ancient 
barrows,  beneath  or  within  which  are  supposed  to  lie 
buried  the  slain  of  a  forgotten  or  doubtfully  remembered 
battle,  fought  on  the  site  of  Greenwich  Park  as  long  ago 
as  two  or  three  centuries  after  the  birth  of  Christ.  What 
ever  may  once  have  been  their  height  and  magnitude, 
they  have  now  scarcely  more  prominence  in  the  actual 
scene  than  the  battle  of  which  they  are  the  sole  monu 
ments  retains  in  history,  —  being  only  a  few  mounds  side 
by  side,  elevated  a  little  above  the  surface  of  the  ground, 
ten  or  twelve  feet  in  diameter,  with  a  shallow  depression 
in  their  summits.  When  one  of  them  was  opened,  not 
long  since,  no  bones,  nor  armor,  nor  weapons  were  dis 
covered,  nothing  but  some  small  jewels,  and  a  tuft  of  hair, 
—  perhaps  from  the  head  of  a  valiant  general,  who,  dying 
on  the  field  of  his  victory,  bequeathed  this  lock,  together 
with  his  indestructible  fame,  to  after  ages.  The  hair  and 
jewels  are  probably  in  the  British  Museum,  where  the 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  265 

potsherds  and  rubbish  of  innumerable  generations  make 
the  visitor  wish  that  each  passing  century  could  carry  off 
ail  its  fragments  and  relics  along  with  it,  instead  of  add 
ing  them  to  the  continually  accumulating  burden  which 
human  knowledge  is  compelled  to  lug  upon  its  back.  Aa 
for  the  fame,  I  know  not  what  has  become  of  it. 

After  traversing  the  Park,  we  come  into  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Greenwich  Hospital,  and  will  pass  through  one 
of  its  spacious  gateways  for  the  sake  of  glancing  at  an 
establishment  which  does  more  honor  to  the  heart  of  Eng 
land  than  anything  else  that  I  am  acquainted  with,  of  a 
public  nature.  It  is  very  seldom  that  we  can  be  sensible 
of  anything  like  kindliness  in  the  acts  or  relations  of  such 
an  artificial  thing  as  a  National  Government.  Our  own 
Government,  I  should  conceive,  is  too  much  an  abstraction 
ever  to  feel  any  sympathy  for  its  maimed  sailors  and  sol 
diers,  though  it  will  doubtless  do  them  a  severe  kind  of 
justice,  as  chilling  as  the  touch  of  steel.  But  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  Greenwich  pensioners  are  the  petted  chil 
dren  of  the  nation,  and  that  the  Government  is  their  dry- 
nurse,  and  that  the  old  men  themselves  have  a  childlike 
consciousness  of  their  position.  Very  likely,  a  better  sort 
of  life  might  have  been  arranged,  and  a  wiser  care  be 
stowed  on  them ;  but,  such  as  it  is,  it  enables  them  to 
spend  a  sluggish,  careless,  comfortable  old  age,  grumbling, 
growling,  gruff,  as  if  all  the  foul  weather  of  their  past 
years  were  pent  up  within  them,  yet  not  much  more  dis 
contented  than  such  weather-beaten  and  battle-battered 
fragments  of  human  kind  must  inevitably  be.  Their 
home,  in  its  outward  form,  is  on  a  very  magnificent  plan. 
Its  germ  was  a  royal  palace,  the  full  expansion  of  which 
has  resulted  in  a  series  of  edifices  externally  more  beauti. 


2GG  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

ful  than  any  English  palace  that  I  have  seen,  consisting 
of  several  quadrangles  of  stately  architecture,  united  by 
colonnades  and  gravel  walks,  and  enclosing  grassy  squares, 
with  statues  in  the  centre,  the  whole  extending  along  the 
Thames.  It  is  built  of  marble,  or  very  light-colored 
stone,  in  the  classic  style,  with  pillars  and  porticos,  which 
(to  my  own  taste,  and,  I  fancy,  to  that  of  the  old  sailors) 
produce  but  a  cold  and  shivery  effect  in  the  English  cli 
mate.  Had  I  been  the  architect,  I  would  have  studied 
the  characters,  habits,  and  predilections  of  nautical  people 
in  AVapping,  Rotherhithe,  and  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Tower,  (places  which  I  visited  in  affectionate  remem 
brance  of  Captain  Lemuel  Gulliver,  and  other  actual  or 
mythological  navigators,)  and  would  have  built  the  hospi 
tal  in  a  kind  of  ethereal  similitude  to  the  narrow,  dark, 
ugly,  and  inconvenient,  but  snug  and  cozy  homeliness  of 
the  sailor  boarding-houses  there.  There  can  be  no  ques 
tion  that  all  the  above  attributes,  or  enough  of  them  to 
satisfy  an  old  sailor's  heart,  might  be  reconciled  with 
architectural  beauty  and  the  wholesome  contrivances  of 
modern  dwellings,  and  thus  a  novel  and  genuine  style  of 
building  be  given  to  the  world. 

But  their  countrymen  meant  kindly  by  the  old  fellows  in 
assigning  them  the  ancient  royal  site  where  Elizabeth  held 
her  court  and  Charles  II.  began  to  build  his  palace.  So  far 
as  the  locality  went,  it  was  treating  them  like  so  many 
kings  ;  and,  with  a  discreet  abundance  of  grog,  beer,  and 
tobacco,  there  was  perhaps  little  more  to  be  accomplished 
in  behalf  of  men  whose  whole  previous  lives  have  tended 
to  unfit  them  for  old  age.  Their  chief  discomfort  is  prob 
ably  for  lack  of  something  to  do  or  think  about.  But, 
judging  by  the  few  whom  I  saw,  a  listless  habil  seems  to 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  267 

have  crept  over  them,  a  dim  dreaminess  of  mood,  in  which 
they  sit  between  asleep  and  awake,  and  find  the  long  day 
wearing  towards  bedtime  without  its  having  made  any 
distinct  record  of  itself  upon  their  consciousness.  Sitting 
on  stone  benches  in  the  sunshine,  they  subside  into  slum 
ber,  or  nearly  so,  and  start  at  the  approach  of  footsteps 
echoing  under  the  colonnades,  ashamed  to  be  caught  nap 
ping,  and  rousing  themselves  in  a  hurry,  as  formerly  on 
the  midnight  watch  at  sea.  In  their  brightest  mo 
ments,  they  gather  in  groups  and  bore  one  another  with 
endless  sea-yarns  about  their  voyages  under  famous  ad 
mirals,  and  about  gale  and  calm,  battle  and  chase,  and 
all  that  class  of  incident  that  has  its  sphere  on  the  deck 
and  in  the  hollow  interior  of  a  ship,  where  their  world 
has  exclusively  been.  For  other  pastime,  they  quarrel 
among  themselves,  comrade  with  comrade,  and  perhaps 
shake  paralytic  fists  in  furrowed  face?  If  inclined  for  a 
little  exercise,  they  can  bestir  their  \\  ooden  legs  on  the 
long  esplanade  that  borders  by  the  Thames,  criticizing 
the  rig  of  passing  ships,  and  firing  off  volleys  of  male 
diction  at  the  steamers,  which  have  made  the  sea  another 
element  than  that  they  used  to  be  acquainted  with.  All 
this  is  but  cold  comfort  for  the  evening  of  life,  yet  may 
compare  rather  favorably  with  the  preceding  portions  of 
it,  comprising  little  save  imprisonment  on  shipboard,  in 
the  course  of  which  they  have  been  tossed  all  about  the 
world  and  caught  hardly  a  glimpse  of  it,  forgetting  what 
grass  and  trees  are,  and  never  finding  out  what  woman 
is,  though  they  may  have  encountered  a  painted  spectre 
which  they  took  for  her.  A  country  owes  much  to  human 
beings  whose  bodies  she  has  worn  out  and  whose  immor 
tal  part  she  has  left  undeveloped  or  debased,  as  we  find 


268  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

them  here  ;  and  having  wasted  an  idle  paragraph  upon 
them,  let  me  now  suggest  that  old  men  have  a  kind  of 
susceptibility  to  moral  impressions,  and  even  (up  to  an 
advanced  period)  a  receptivity  of  truth,  which  often  ap 
pears  to  come  to  them  after  the  active  time  of  life  is  past. 
The  Greenwich  pensioners  might  prove  better  subjects 
»br  true  education  now  than  in  their  school-boy  days ;  but 
;hen  where  is  the  Normal  School  that  could  educate  in 
structors  for  such  a  class  ? 

There  is  a  beautiful  chapel  for  the  pensioners,  in  the 
classic  style,  over  the  altar  of  which  hangs  a  picture  by 
West.  I  never  could  look  at  it  long  enough  to  make  out 
its  design  ;  for  this  artist  (though  it  pains  me  to  say  it  of 
so  respectable  a  countryman)  had  a  gift  of  frigidity,  a 
knack  of  grinding  ice  into  his  paint,  a  power  of  stupefying 
the  spectator's  perceptions  and  quelling  his  sympathy, 
beyond  any  other  limner  that  ever  handled  a  brush.  In 
spite  of  many  pangs  of  conscience,  I  seize  this  opportu 
nity  to  wreak  a  lifelong  abhorrence  upon  the  poor,  blame 
less  man,  for  the  sake  of  that  dreary  picture  of  Lear,  an 
explosion  of  frosty  fury,  that  used  to  be  a  bugbear  to  me  in 
the  Athenaeum  Exhibition.  Would  fire  burn  it,  I  wonder  ? 

The  principal  thing  that  they  have  to  show  you,  at 
Greenwich  Hospital,  is  the  Painted  Hall.  It  is  a  splendid 
and  spacious  room,  at  least  a  hundred  feet  long  and  half 
as  high,  with  a  ceiling  painted  in  fresco  by  Sir  Jamea 
Thornhill.  As  A  work  of  art,  I  presume,  this  frescoed 
canopy  has  little  merit,  though  it  produces  an  exceedingly 
rich  effect  by  its  brilliant  coloring  and  as  a  specimen  of 
magnificent  upholstery.  The  walls  of  the  grand  apart 
ment  are  entirely  covered  with  pictures,  many  of  them 
representing  battles  and  other  naval  ihcidonts  that  were 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  269 

once  fresher  in  the  world's  memory  than  now,  but  chiefly 
portraits  of  old  admirals,  comprising  the  whole  line  of 
heroes  who  have  trod  the  quarter-decks  of  British  ships 
for  more  than  two  hundred  years  back.  Next  to  a  tomb 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  which  was  Nelson's  most  elevated 
object  of  ambition,  it  would  seem  to  be  the  highest  meed 
of  a  naval  warrior  to  have  his  portrait  hung  up  in  the 
Painted  Hall ;  but,  by  dint  of  victory  upon  victory,  these 
illustrious  personages  have  grown  to  be  a  mob,  and  by  no 
means  a  very  interesting  one,  so  far  as  regards  the  char 
acter  of  the  faces  here  depicted.  They  are  generally 
commonplace,  and  often  singularly  stolid ;  and  I  have 
observed  (both  in  the  Painted  Hall  and  elsewhere,  and 
not  only  in  portraits,  but  in  the  actual  presence  of  such 
renowned  people  as  I  have  caught  glimpses  of)  that  the 
countenances  of  heroes  are  not  nearly  so  impressive  as 
those  of  statesmen,  —  except,  of  course,  in  the  rare  in 
stances  where  warlike  ability  has  been  but  the  one-sided 
manifestation  of  a  profound  genius  for  managing  the 
world's  affairs.  Nine  tenths  of  these  distinguished  admi« 
rals,  for  instance,  if  their  faces  tell  truth,  must  needs 
have  been  blockheads,  and  might  have  served  better,  one 
would  imagine,  as  wooden  "figure-heads  for  their  own  ships 
than  to  direct  any  difficult  and  intricate  scheme  of  action 
from  the  quarter-deck.  It  is  doubtful  whether  the  same 
kind  of  men  will  hereafter  meet  with  a  similar  degree  of 
success  ;  for  they  were  victorious  chiefly  through  the  old 
English  hardihood,  exercised  in  a  field  of  which  modem 
science  had  not  yet  got  possession.  Rough  valor  has  lost 
something  of  its  value,  since  their  days,  and  must  continue 
to  sink  lower  and  lower  in  the  comparative  estimate  of 
warlike  qualities.  In  the  next  naval  war,  as  between 


270  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

England  and  France,  I  would  bet,  methinks,  upon  the 
Frenchman's  head. 

It  is  remarkable,  however,  that  the  great  naval  hero  of 
England  —  the  greatest,  therefore,  in  the  world,  and  of 
all  time  —  had  none  of  the  stolid  characteristics  that  be 
long  to  his  class,  and  cannot  fairly  be  accepted  as  their 
representative  man.  Foremost  in  the  roughest  of  pro 
fessions,  he  was  as  delicately  organized  as  a  woman,  and 
as  painfully  sensitive  as  a  poet.  More  than  any  other 
Englishman  he  won  the  love  and  admiration  of  his  coun 
try,  but  won  them  through  the  efficacy  of  qualities  that 
are  not  English,  or,  at  all  events,  were  intensified  in  his 
case  and  made  poignant  and  powerful  by  something  mor 
bid  in  the  man,  which  put  him  otherwise  at  cross-pur 
poses  with  life.  He  was  a  man  of  genius  ;  and  genius  in 
an  Englishman  (not  to  cite  the  good  old  simile  of  a  pearl 
in  the  oyster)  is  usually  a  symptom  of  a  lack  of  balance 
in  the  general  making-up  of  the  character ;  as  we  may 
satisfy  ourselves  by  running  over  the  list  of  their  poets, 
for  example,  and  observing  how  many  of  them  have  been 
sickly  or  deformed,  and  how  often  their  lives  have  been 
darkened  by  insanity.  An  ordinary  Englishman  is  the 
healthiest  and  wholesomest  of  human  beings  ;  an  extraor 
dinary  one  is  almost  always,  in  one  way  or  another,  a  sick 
man.  It  was  so  with  Lord  Nelson.  The  wonderful  con 
trast  or  relation  between  his  personal  qualities  the  posi 
tion  which  he  held,  and  the  life  that  he  lived,  makes  him 
as  interesting  a  personage  as  all  history  has  to  show 
and  it  is  a  pity  that  Southey's  biography  —  so  good  in  its 
superficial  way,  and  yet  so  inadequate  as  regards  arny  real 
delineation  of  the  man  —  should  have  taken  the  subject 
aut  of  the  hands  of  some  writer  endowed  with  more  deli- 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  271 

catc  appreciation  and  deeper  insight  than  that  genuine 
Englishman  possessed.  But  Southey  accomplished  his 
own  purpose,  which,  apparently,  was  to  present  his  hero 
as  a  pattern  for  England's  young  midshipmen. 

But  the  English  capacity  for  hero-worship  is  full  to 
the  brim  with  what  they  are  able  to  comprehend  of  Lord 
Nelson's  character.  Adjoining  the  Painted  Hall  is  a 
smaller  room,  the  walls  of  which  are  completely  and  ex 
clusively  adorned  with  pictures  of  the  great  Admiral's 
exploits.  We  see  the  frail,  ardent  man  in  all  the  most 
noted  events  of  his  career,  from  his  encounter  with  a 
Polar  bear  to  his  death  at  Trafalgar,  quivering  here  and 
there  about  the  room  like  a  blue,  lambent  flame.  No 
Briton  ever  enters  that  apartment  without  feeling  the 
beef  and  ale  of  his  composition  stirred  to  its  depths,  and 
finding  himself  changed  into  a  hero  for  the  nonce,  how 
ever  stolid  his  brain,  however  tough  his  heart,  however 
unexcitable  his  ordinary  mood.  To  confess  the  truth,  I 
myself,  though  belonging  to  another  parish,  have  been 
deeply  sensible  to  the  sublime  recollections  there  aroused, 
acknowledging  that  Nelson  expressed  his  life  in  a  kind 
of  symbolic  poetry  which  I  had  as  much  right  to  under 
stand  as  these  burly  islanders.  Cool  and  critical  observer 
as  I  sought  to  be,  I  enjoyed  their  burst  of  honest  indigna 
tion  when  a  visitor  (not  an  American,  I  am  glad  to  say) 
thrust  his  walking-stick  almost  into  Nelson's  face,  in  one 
of  the  pictures,  by  way  of  pointing  a  remark ;  and  the 
bystanders  immediately  glowed  like  so  many  hot  coals, 
nnd  would  probably  have  consumed  the  offender  in  their 
wrath,  had  he  not  effected  his  retreat.  But  the  most  sa 
cred  objects  of  all  are  two  of  Nelson's  coats,  under  sepa 
rate  glass  cases.  One  is  that  which  he  wore  at  the  Battle 


272  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

of  the  Nile,  and  it  is  now  sadly  injured  by  moths,  which 
will  quite  destroy  it  in  a  few  years,  unless  its  guardians 
preserve  it  as  we  do  Washington's  military  suit,  by  occa 
sionally  baking  it  in  an  oven.  The  other  is  the  coat  in 
which  he  received  his  death-wound  at  Trafalgar.  On  its 
breast  are  sewed  three  or  four  stars  and  orders  of  knight 
hood,  now  much  dimmed  by  time  and  damp,  but  which 
glittered  brightly  enough  on  the  battle-day  to  draw  th6 
fatal  aim  of  a  French  marksman.  The  bullet-hole  i* 
visible  on  the  shoulder,  as  well  as  a  part  of  tne  golden 
tassels  of  an  epaulet,  the  rest  of  which  was  fchot  away. 
Over  the  coat  is  laid  a  white  waistcoat  with  a  great  olood- 
stain  on  it,  out  of  which  all  the  redness  has  uuexly  faded, 
leaving  it  of  a  dingy  yellow  hue,  in  the  thre^acurb  year* 
since  that  blood  gushed  out.  Yet  it  was  onco  cne  reddest 
blood  in  England,  —  Nelson's  blood  ! 

The  hospital  stands  close  adjacent  to  the  town  of  Green 
wich,  which  will  always  retain  a  kind  of  fei.ial  aspect  in 
my  memory,  in  consequence  of  my  having  first  become 
acquainted  with  it  on  Easter  Monday.  T  il  a  few  years 
ago,  the  first  three  days  of  Easter  were  a  t  arnival  season 
in  this  old  town,  during  which  the  idle  ai  d  disreputable 
part  of  London  poured  itself  into  the  .streets  like  an 
inundation  of  the  Thames,  —  as  unclean  as  that  turbid 
mixture  of  the  offscourings  of  the  vast  city,  and  over 
flowing  with  its  grimy  pollution  whatever  rural  innocence, 
if  any,  might  be  found  in  the  suburban  neighborhood. 
This  festivity  was  called  Greenwich  Fair,  the  final  one 
of  which,  in  an  immemorial  succession,  it  was  my  fortune 
to  behold. 

If  I  had  bethought  myself  of  going  through  the  fair 
with  a  note-book  and  pencil,  jotting  down  all  the  promi- 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  273 

nent  objects,  I  doubt  not  that  the  result  might  ha\  e  been 
a  sketch  of  English  life  quite  as  characteristic  and  worthy 
of  historical  preservation  as  an  account  of  the  Roman 
Carnival.  Having  neglected  to  do  so,  I  remember  little 
more  than  a  confusion  of  unwashed  and  shabbily  dressed 
people,  intermixed  with  some  smarter  figures,  but,  on  the 
whole,  presenting  a  mobbish  appearance  such  as  we  never 
see  in  our  own  country.  It  taught  me  to  understand  why 
Shakspeare,  in  speaking  of  a  crowd,  so  often  alludes  to 
its  attribute  of  evil  odor.  The  common  people  of  Eng 
land,  I  am  afraid,  have  no  daily  familiarity  with  even  so 
necessary  a  thing  as  a  wash-bowl,  not  to  mention  a  bath 
ing-tub.  And  furthermore,  it  is  one  mighty  difference 
between  them  and  us,  that  every  man  and  woman  on  our 
side  of  the  water  has  a  working-day  suit  and  a  holiday 
suit,  and  is  occasionally  as  fresh  as  a  rose,  whereas,  in 
the  good  old  country,  the  griminess  of  his  labor  or  squalid 
habits  clings  forever  to  the  individual,  and  gets  to  be  a 
part  of  his  personal  substance.  These  are  broad  facts, 
involving  great  corollaries  and  dependencies.  There  are 
really,  if  you  stop  to  think  about  it,  few  sadder  spectacles 
in  the  world  than  a  ragged  coat,  or  a  soiled  and  shabby 
gown,  at  a  festival. 

This  unfragrant  crowd  was  exceedingly  dense,  being 
welded  together,  as  it  were,  in  the  street  through  which 
we  strove  to  make  our  way.  On  either  side  were  oys 
ter-stands,  stalls  of  oranges,  (a  very  prevalent  fruit  in 
England,  where  they  give  the  withered  ones  a  guise  of 
freshness  by  boiling  them,)  and  booths  covered  with  old 
sail-cloth,  in  which  the  commodity  that  most  attracted  the 
bye  was  gilt  gingerbread.  It  was  so  completely  envel- 
in  Dutch  gilding  that  I  did  not  at  first  recognize  an 

18 


274  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

Did  acquaintance,  but  wondered  what  those  golden  crowns 
and  images  could  be.  There  were  likewise  drums  and 
other  toys  for  small  children,  and  a  variety  of  showy  and 
worthless  articles  for  children  of  a  larger  growth  ;  though 
it  perplexed  me  to  imagine  who,  in  such  a  mob,  could 
have  the  innocent  taste  to  desire  playthings,  or  the  money 
to  pay  for  them.  Not  that  I  have  a  right  to  accuse  the 
mob,  on  my  own  knowledge,  of  being  any  less  innocent 
than  a  set  of  cleaner  and  better  dressed  people  might 
have  been ;  for,  though  one  of  them  stole  my  pocket- 
handkerchief,  I  could  not  but  consider  it  fair  game,  under 
the  circumstances,  and  was  grateful  to  the  thief  for  spar 
ing  me  my  purse.  They  were  quiet,  civil,  and  remark 
ably  good-humored,  making  due  allowance  for  the  national 
gruffness ;  there  was  no  riot,  no  tumultuous  swaying  to 
and  fro  of  the  mass,  such  as  I  have  often  noted  in  an 
American  crowd,  no  noise  of  voices,  except  frequent 
bursts  of  laughter,  hoarse  or  shrill,  and  a  widely  diffused, 
inarticulate  murmur,  resembling  nothing  so  much  as  the 
rumbling  of  the  tide  among  the  arches  of  London  Bridge. 
What  immensely  perplexed  me  was  a  sharp,  angry  sort 
of  rattle,  in  all  quarters,  far  off  and  close  at  hand,  and 
sometimes  right  at  my  own  back,  where  it  sounded  as  if 
the  stout  fabric  of  my  English  surtout  had  been  ruth 
lessly  rent  in  twain ;  and  everybody's  clothes,  all  over 
the  fair,  were  evidently  being  torn  asunder  in  the  same 
way.  By  and  by,  I  discovered  that  this  strange  nois^ 
was  produced  by  a  little  instrument  called  "  The  Fun  ol 
the  Fair,"  —  a  sort  of  rattle,  consisting  of  a  wooden 
wheel,  the  cogs  of  which  turn  against  a  thin  slip  of  wood, 
and  so  produce  a  rasping  sound  when  drawn  smartly 
against  a  person's  back.  The  ladies  draw  their  rattlt* 


A  LONDON  SUBURB.  275 

ugainst  the  backs  of  their  male  friends,  (aiid  everybody 
passes  for  a  friend  at  Greenwich  Fair,)  and  the  young 
men  return  the  compliment  on  the  broad  British  backs 
of  the  ladies  ;  and  all  are  bound  by  immemorial  custom 
to  take  it  in  good  part  and  be  merry  at  the  joke.  As  it 
was  one  of  rny  prescribed  official  duties  to  give  an  ac 
count  of  such  mechanical  contrivances  as  might  be  un 
known  in  my  own  country,  I  have  thought  it  right  to  be 
thus  particular  in  describing  the  Fun  of  the  Fair. 

But  this  was  far  from  being  the  sole  amusement. 
There  were  theatrical  booths,  in  front  of  which  were 
pictorial  representations  of  the  scenes  to  be  enacted 
within  ;  and  anon  a  drummer  emerged  from  one  of  them, 
thumping  on  a  terribly  lax  drum,  and  followed  by  the 
entire  dramatis  persona,  who  ranged  themselves  on  a 
wooden  platform  in  front  of  the  theatre.  They  were 
dressed  in  character,  but  wofully  shabby,  with  very  dingy 
and  wrinkled  white  tights,  threadbare  cotton-velvets, 
crumpled  silks,  and  crushed  muslin,  and  all  the  gloss  and 
glory  gone  out  of  their  aspect  and  attire,  seen  thus  in 
the  broad  daylight  and  after  a  long  series  of  perform 
ances.  They  sang  a  song  together,  and  withdrew  intc 
the  theatre,  whither  the  public  were  invited  to  follow 
them  at  the  inconsiderable  cost  of  a  penny  a  ticket.  Be 
fore  another  booth  stood  a  pair  of  brawny  fighting-men, 
displaying  their  muscle,  and  soliciting  patronage  for  an 
exhibition  of  the  noble  British  art  of  pugilism.  There 
were  pictures  of  giants,  monsters,  and  outlandish  beasts, 
most  prodigious,  to  be  sure,  and  worthy  of  all  admiration, 
unless  the  artist  had  gone  incomparably  beyond  his  sub 
ject.  Jugglers  proclaimed  aloud  the  miracles  which  they 
were  prepared  to  work  ;  and  posture-makers  dislocated 


276  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

every  joint  of  their  bodies  and  tied  their  limbs  into  inex 
tricable  knots,  wherever  they  could  find  space  to  spread 
a  little  square  of  carpet  on  the  ground.  In  the  midst 
of  the  confusion,  while  everybody  was  treading  on  his 
neighbor's  toes,  some  little  boys  were  very  solicitous  to 
brush  your  boots.  These  lads,  I  believe,  are  a  product 
of  modern  society,  —  at  least,  no  older  than  the  time  of 
Gay,  who  celebrates  their  origin  in  his  "  Trivia  "  ;  but  in 
most  other  respects  the  scene  reminded  me  of  Bunyan's 
description  of  Vanity  Fair,  —  nor  is  it  at  all  improbable 
that  the  Pilgrim  may  have  been  a  merry-maker  here,  in 
his  wild  youth. 

It  seemed  very  singular  —  though,  of  course,  I  imme 
diately  classified  it  as  an  English  characteristic  —  to  see 
a  great  many  portable  weighing-machines,  the  owners  of 
which  cried  out  continually  and  amain,  —  "  Come,  know 
your  weight !  Come,  come,  know  your  weight  to-day ! 
Come,  know  your  weight ! " —  and  a  multitude  of  people, 
mostly  large  in  the  girth,  were  moved  by  this  vocifera 
tion  to  sit  down  in  the  machines.  I  know  not  whether 
they  valued  themselves  on  their  beef,  and  estimated  their 
standing  as  members  of  society  at  so  much  a  pound  ;  but 
I  shall  set  it  down  as  a  national  peculiarity,  and  a  symbol 
of  the  prevalence  of  the  earthly  over  the  spiritual  ele 
ment,  that  Englishmen  are  wonderfully  bent  on  knowing 
how  solid  and  physically  ponderous  they  are. 

On  the  whole,  having  an  appetite  for  the  brown  bread 
mid  the  tripe  and  sausages  of  life,  as  well  as  for  its  nicer 
cates  and  dainties,  I  enjoyed  the  scene,  and  was  amused 
at  the  sight  of  a  gruff  old  Greenwich  pensioner,  who,  for 
getful  of  the  sailor-frolics  of  his  young  days,  stood  look 
ing  with  grim  disapproval  at  all  these  vanities.  Thug 


A.  LONDON  SUBURB.  277 

we  squeezed  our  way  through  the  mob-jammed  town, 
and  emerged  into  the  Park,  where,  likewise,  we  met  a 
great  many  merry-makers,  but  with  freer  space  for  their 
gambols  than  in  the  streets.  We  soon  found  ourselves 
the  targets  for  a  cannonade  with  oranges,  (most  of  them 
in  a  decayed  condition,)  which  went  humming  past  our 
ears  from  the  vantage-ground  of  neighboring  hillocks, 
sometimes  hitting  our  sacred  persons  with  an  inelastic 
thump.  This  was  one  of  the  privileged  freedoms  of  the 
time,  and  was  nowise  to  be  resented,  except  by  returning 
the  salute.  Many  persons  were  running  races,  hand  in 
hand,  down  the  declivities,  especially  that  steepest  one 
on  the  summit  of  which  stands  the  world-central  Obser 
vatory,  and  (as  in  the  race  of  life)  the  partners  were 
usually  male  and  female,  and  often  caught  a  tumble  to 
gether  before  reaching  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  Here 
abouts  we  were  pestered  and  haunted  by  two  young  girls, 
the  eldest  not  more  than  thirteen,  teasing  us  to  buy 
matches  ;  and  finding  no  market  for  their  commodity,  the 
taller  one  suddenly  turned  a  somerset  before  our  faces, 
and  rolled  heels  over  head  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  hill 
on  which  we  stood.  Then,  scrambling  up  the  acclivity, 
the  topsy-turvy  trollop  offered  us  her  matches  again,  as 
demurely  as  if  she  had  never  flung  aside  her  equilibrium ; 
so  that,  dreading  a  repetition  of  the  feat,  we  gave  her 
sixpence  and  an  admonition,  and  enjoined  her  nevei  to 
do  so  any  more. 

The  most  curious  amusement  that  we  witnessed  here  — 
or  anywhere  else,  indeed  —  was  an  ancient  and  hereditary 
pastime  called  "  Kissing  in  the  King."  I  shall  describe 
the  sport  exactly  as  I  saw  it,  although  an  English  friend 
assures  me  that  there  are  certain  ceremonies  with  a  hand- 


278  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

kerchief,  which  make  it  much  more  decorous  and  grace 
ful.  A  handkerchief,  indeed !  There  was  no  such  thing 
in  the  crowd,  except  it  were  the  one  which  they  had  just 
filched  out  of  my  pocket.  It  is  one  of  the  simplest  kinds 
of  games,  needing  little  or  no  practice  to  make  the  player 
altogether  perfect ;  and  the  manner  of  it  is  this.  A  ring 
is  formed,  (in  the  present  case,  it  was  of  large  circum 
ference  and  thickly  gemmed  around  with  faces,  mostly  on 
the  broad  grin,)  into  the  centre  of  which  steps  an  ad 
venturous  youth,  and,  looking  round  the  circle,  selects 
whatever  maiden  may  most  delight  his  eye.  He  pre 
sents  his  hand,  (which  she  is  bound  to  accept,)  leads  her 
into  the  centre,  salutes  her  on  the  lips,  and  retires,  taking 
his  stand  in  the  expectant  circle.  The  girl,  in  her  turn, 
throws  a  favorable  regard  on  some  fortunate  young  man, 
offers  her  hand  to  lead  him  forth,  makes  him  happy  with 
a  maidenly  kiss,  and  withdraws  to  hide  her  blushes,  if 
any  there  be,  among  the  simpering  faces  in  the  ring  ; 
while  the  'avored  swain  loses  no  time  in  transferring  her 
Balute  to  the  prettiest  and  plumpest  among  the  many 
mouths  that  are  primming  themselves  in  anticipation. 
And  thas  the  thing  goes  on,  till  all  the  festive  throng  are 
inwree^hed  and  intertwined  into  an  endless  and  inex 
tricable  chain  of  kisses  ^  though,  indeed,  it  smote  me  with 
compassion  to  reflect  that  some  forlorn  pair  of  lips  might 
be  left  out,  and  never  know  the  triumph  of  a  salute,  after 
throwing  aside  so  many  delicate  reserves  for  the  sake  of 
winning  it.  If  the  young  men  had  any  chivalry,  there 
was  a  fair  chance  to  display  it  by  kissing  the  li  >meliest 

lamsel  in  the  circle. 
To  be  frank,  however,  at  the  first  glance,  and  to  my 

A-nierican   eye,  they  looked   all   homely  alike,  and  the 


A  LONDON  SUBUKB.  279 

chivalry  that  I  suggest  is  more  than  I  could  have  been 
capable  of,  at  any  period  of  my  life.  They  seemed  to 
be  country-lasses,  of  sturdy  and  wholesome  aspect,  with 
coarse-grained,  cabbage-rosy  cheeks,  and,  I  am  willing  to 
suppose,  a  stout  texture  of  moral  principle,  such  as  would 
bear  a  good  deal  of  rough  usage  without  suffering  much 
detriment.  But  how  unlike  the  trim  little  damsels  of 
my  native  land !  I  desire  above  all  things  to  be  cour 
teous  ;  but,  sinne  the  plain  truth  must  be  told,  the  soil 
and  climate  of  England  produce  feminine  beauty  as  rarely 
as  they  do  delicate  fruit,  and  though  admirable  specimens 
of  both  are  to  be  met  with,  they  are  the  hot-house  ameli 
orations  of  refined  society,  and  apt,  moreover,  to  relapse 
into  the  coarseness  of  the  original  stock.  The  men  are 
man-like,  but  the  women  are  not  beautiful,  though  the 
female  Bull  be  well  enough  adapted  to  the  male.  To 
return  to  the  lasses  of  Greenwich  Fair,  their  charms 
were  few,  and  their  behavior,  perhaps,  not  altogether 
commendable ;  and  yet  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  a 
degree  of  faith  in  their  innocent  intentions,  with  such 
a  half-bashful  zest  and  entire  simplicity  did  they  keep  up 
their  part  of  the  game.  It  put  the  spectator  in  good- 
humor  to  look  at  them,  because  there  was  still  something 
of  the  old  Arcadian  life,  the  secure  freedom  of  the  an 
tique  age,  in  their  way  of  surrendering  their  lips  to 
strangers,  as  if  there  were  no  evil  or  impurity  in  the 
world.  As  for  the  young  men,  they  were  chiefly  speci 
mens  of  the  vulgar  sediment  of  London  life,  often  shab 
bily  genteel,  rowdyish,  pale,  wearing  the  unbrushed  coat, 
unshifted  linen,  and  unwashed  faces  of  yesterday,  as  well 
as  the  haggardness  of  last  night's  jollity  in  a  gin-shop. 
Gathering  their  character  from  these  tokens,  I  wondered 


280  A  LONDON  SUBURB. 

whether  there  were  any  reasonable  prospect  of  their  faif 
partners  returning  to  their  rustic  homes  with  as  much  in 
nocence  (whatever  were  its  amount  or  quality)  as  they 
brought  to  Greenwich  Fair,  in  spite  of  the  perilous  fa 
miliarity  established  by  Kissing  in  the  Ring. 

The  manifold  disorders  resulting  from  the  fair,  at  which 
a  vast  city  was  brought  into  intimate  relations  with  a 
comparatively  rural  district,  have  at  length  led  to  its 
suppression  ;  this  was  the  very  last  celebration  of  it,  and 
brought  to  a  close  the  broad-mouthed  merriment  of  many 
hundred  years.  Thus  my  poor  sketch,  faint  as  its  colors 
are,  may  acquire  some  little  value  in  the  reader's  eyes 
from  the  consideration  that  no  observer  of  the  coming 
time  will  ever  have  an  opportunity  to  give  a  better.  I 
should  find  it  difficult  to  believe,  however,  that  the  queer 
pastime  just  described,  or  any  moral  mischief  to  which 
that  and  other  customs  might  pave  the  way,  can  have  led 
to  the  overthrow  of  Greenwich  Fair;  for  it  has  often 
seemed  to  me  that  Englishmen  of  station  and  respecta 
bility,  unless  of  a  peculiarly  philanthropic  turn,  have 
neither  any  faith  in  the  feminine  purity  of  the  lower 
orders  of  their  countrywomen,  nor  the  slightest  value  for 
it,  allowing  its  possible  existence.  The  distinction  of 
ranks  is  so  marked,  that  the  English  cottage  damsel  holds 
a  position  somewhat  analogous  to  that  of  the  negro  girl 
in  our  Southern  States.  Hence  comes  inevitable  detri 
ment  to  the  moral  condition  of  those  men  themselves, 
who  forget  that  the  humblest  woman  has  a  right  and  a 
duty  to  hold  herself  in  the  same  sanctity  as  the  highest. 
The  subject  cannot  well  be  discussed  in  these  pages  ;  but 
I  offer  it  as  a  serious  conviction,  from  what  I  have  been 
able  to  observe,  that  the  England  of  to-day  is  the  un- 


A  LONDON  SUB  .TIB.  281 

scrupulous  old  England  of  Tom  Jones  and  Joseph  An 
drews,  Humphrey  Clinker  and  Roderick  Random  ;  and 
in  our  refined  era,  just  the  same  as  at  that  more  free- 
spoken  epoch,  this  singular  people  has  a  certain  con 
tempt  for  any  fine-strained  purity,  any  special  squeamish- 
ness,  as  they  consider  it,  on  the  part  of  an  ingenuous 
youth.  They  appear  to  look  upon  it  as  a  suspicious 
phenomenon  in  the  masculine  character. 

Nevertheless,  I  by  no  means  take  upon  me  to  affirm 
that  English  morality,  as  regards  the  phase  here  alluded 
to,  is  really  at  a  lower  point  than  our  own.  Assuredly, 
I  hope  so,  because,  making  a  higher  pretension,  or,  at  all 
events,  more  carefully  hiding  whatever  may  be  amiss,  we 
are  either  better  than  they,  or  necessarily  a  great  deal 
worse.  It  impressed  me  that  their  open  avowal  and  rec 
ognition  of  immoralities  served  to  throw  the  disease  to 
the  surface,  where  it  might  be  more  effectually  dealt 
with,  and  leave  a  sacred  interior  not  utterly  profaned,  in 
stead  of  turning  its  poison  back  among  the  inner  vitali 
ties  of  the  character,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  corrupting 
them  all.  Be  that  as  it  may,  these  Englishmen  are  cer 
tainly  a  franker  and  simpler  people  than  ourselves,  from 
peer  to  peasant ;  but  if  we  can  take  it  as  compensatory 
on  our  part,  (which  I  leave  to  be  considered),  that  they 
owe  those  noble  and  manly  qualities  to  a  coarser  grain  in 
their  nature,  and  that,  with  a  finer  one  in  ours,  we  shall 
ultimately  acquire  a  marble  polish  of  which  they  are  in 
susceptible,  I  believe  that  this  may  be  the  truth. 


UP  THE  THAMES. 

THE  upper  portion  of  Greenwich  (where  my  last  urli* 
cle  left  me  loitering)  is  a  cheerful,  comely,  old-fashioned 
town,  the  peculiarities  of  which,  if  there  be  any,  have 
passed  out  of  my  remembrance.  As  you  descend  towards 
the  Thames,  the  streets  get  meaner,  and  the  shabby  and 
sunken  houses,  elbowing  one  another  for  frontage,  bear  the 
sign-boards  of  beer-shops  and  eating-rooms,  with  especial 
promises  of  whitebait  and  other  delicacies  in  the  fishing 
line.  You  observe,  also,  a  frequent  announcement  of 
"  Tea  Gardens  "  in  the  rear  ;  although,  estimating  the  ca 
pacity  of  the  premises  by  their  external  compass,  the  en 
tire  sylvan  charm  and  shadowy  seclusion  of  such  blissful 
resorts  must  be  limited  within  a  small  back-yard.  These 
places  of  cheap  sustenance  and  recreation  depend  for 
support  upon  the  innumerable  pleasure  parties  who  come 
from  London  Bridge  by  steamer,  at  a  fare  of  a  few  pence, 
and  who  get  as  enjoyable  a  meal  for  a  shilling  a  head  as 
the  Ship  Hotel  would  afford  a  gentleman  for  a  guinea. 

The  steamers,  which  are  constantly  smoking  their  pipe§ 
up  and  down  the  Thames,  offer  much  the  most  agreeable 
mode  of  getting  to  London.  At  least,  it  might  be  exceed 
ingly  agreeable,  except  for  the  myriad  floating  particles 
of  soot  from  the  stove-pipe,  and  the  heavy  heat  of  mid 
summer  sunshine  on  the  unsheltered  deck,  or  the  chill, 
misty  air-draught  of  a  cloudy  day,  and  the  spiteful  little 


LT   THE  THAMES.  283 

showers  of  rain  that  may  spatter  down  upon  you  at  any 
moment,  whatever  the  promise  of  the  sky ;  besides  which 
there  is  some  slight  inconvenience  from  the  inexhaustible 
throng  of  passengers,  who  scarcely  allow  you  standing- 
room,  nor  so  much  as  a  breath  of  unappropriated  air,  and 
never  a  chance  to  sit  down.  If  these  difficulties,  added 
to  the  possibility  of  getting  your  pocket  picked,  weigl 
little  with  you,  the  panorama  along  the  shores  of  the  mem 
orable  river,  and  the  incidents  and  shows  of  passing  life 
upon  its  bosom,  render  the  trip  far  preferable  to  the  brief, 
yet  tiresome  shoot  along  the  railway  track.  On  one  such 
voyage,  a  regatta  of  wherries  raced  past  us,  and  at  once 
involved  every  soul  on  board  our  steamer  in  the  tremen 
dous  excitement  of  the  struggle.  The  spectacle  was  but 
a  moment  within  our  view,  and  presented  nothing  more 
than  a  few  light  skiffs,  in  each  of  which  sat  a  single  rower, 
bare-armed,  and  with  little  apparel,  save  a  shirt  and 
drawers,  pale,  anxious,  with  every  muscle  on  the  stretch, 
and  plying  his  oars  in  such  fashion  that  the  boat  skimmed 
along  with  the  aerial  celerity  of  a  swallow.  I  wondered 
at  myself  for  so  immediately  catching  an  interest  in  the 
affair,  which  seemed  to  contain  no  very  exalted  rivalship 
of  manhood  ;  but,  whatever  the  kind  of  battle  or  the  prize 
of  victory,  it  stirs  one's  sympathy  immensely,  and  is  even 
awful,  to  behold  the  rare  sight  of  a  man  thoroughly  in 
earnest,  doing  his  best,  putting  forth  all  there  is  in  him,  and 
staking  his  very  soul  (as  these  rowers  appeared  willing 
to  do)  on  the  issue  of  the  contest.  It  was  the  seventy- 
fourth  annual  regatta  of  the  Free  Watermen  of  Green 
wich,  and  announced  itself  as  under  the  patronage  of  the 
Lord  Mayor  and  other  distinguished  individuals,  at  whose 
experse,  I  suppose,  a  prize-boat  was  offered  to  the  con* 


284  LP  THE   THAMES. 

queror,  and  some  small  amounts  of  money  to  the  inferio* 
competitors. 

The  aspect  of  London  along  the  Thames,  below  Bridge, 
as  it  is  called,  is  by  no  m^ms  so  impressive  as  it  ought  to 
be,  considering  what  peculiar  advantages  are  offered  for 
the  display  of  grand  and  stately  architecture  by  the  pas 
sage  of  a  river  through  the  midst  of  a  great  city.  It 
seems,  indeed,  as  if  the  heart  of  London  had  been  clell 
open  for  the  mere  purpose  of  showing  how  rotten  and 
drearily  mean  it  had  become.  The  shore  is  lined  with 
the  shabbiest,  blackest,  and  ugliest  buildings  that  can  be 
imagined,  decayed  warehouses  with  blind  windows,  and 
wharves  that  look  ruinous  ;  insomuch  that,  had  I  known 
nothing  more  of  the  world's  metropolis,  I  might  have 
fancied  that  it  had  already  experienced  the  downfall  which 
I  have  heard  commercial  and  financial  prophets  predict 
for  it,  within  the  century.  And  the  muddy  tide  of  the 
Thames,  reflecting  nothing,  and  hiding  a  million  of  un 
clean  secrets  within  its  breast,  —  a  sort  of  guilty  con 
science,  as  it  were,  unwholesome  with  the  rivulets  of  sin 
that  constantly  flow  into  it,  —  is  just  the  dismrvl  stream  to 
glide  by  such  a  city.  The  surface,  to  be  sure,  displays 
no  lack  of  activity,  being  fretted  by  the  passage  of  a  hun 
dred  steamers  and  covered  with  a  good  deal  of  shipping, 
but  mostly  of  a  clumsier  build  than  I  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  see  in  the  Mersey  :  a  fact  which  I  complacently 
attributed  to  the  smaller  number  of  American  clippers  in 
the  Thames,  and  the  less  prevalent  influence  of  American 
example  in  refining  away  the  broad-bottomed  capacity  of 
the  old  Dutch  or  English  models. 

About  midway  between  Greenwich  and  London  Bridg* 
at  a  rude  landing-place  on  the  left  bank  of  the  river,  th» 


UP   THE  THAMES.  285 

Bleamer  rings  its  bell  and  makes  a  momentary  pause  in 
front  of  a  large  circular  structure,  where  it  may  be  worth 
our  while  to  scramble  ashore.  It  indicates  the  locality  of 
one  of  those  prodigious  practical  blunders  that  would  sup 
ply  John  Bull  with  a  topic  of  inexhaustible  ridicule,  if 
his  cousin  Jonathan  had  committed  them,  but  of  which  he 
himself  perpetrates  ten  to  our  one  in  the  mere  wantonness 
of  wealth  that  lacks  better  employment.  The  circular 
building  covers  the  entrance  to  the  Thames  Tunnel,  and 
is  surmounted  by  a  dome  of  glass,  so  as  to  throw  daylight 
down  into  the  great  depth  at  which  the  passage  of  the 
river  commences.  Descending  a  wearisome  succession  of 
staircases,  we  at  last  find  ourselves,  still  in  the  broad 
noon,  standing  before  a  closed  door,  on  opening  which  we 
behold  the  vista  of  an  arched  corridor  that  extends  into 
everlasting  midnight.  In  these  days,  when  glass  has  been 
applied  to  so  many  new  purposes,  it  is  a  pity  that  the 
architect  had  not  thought  of  arching  portions  of  his  abor 
tive  tunnel  with  immense  blocks  of  the  lucid  substance, 
over  which  the  dusky  Thames  would  have  flowed  like 
a  cloud,  making  the  sub-fluvial  avenue  only  a  little 
gloomier  than  a  street  of  upper  London.  At  present, 
it  is  illuminated  at  regular  intervals  by  jets  of  gas, 
not  very  brilliantly,  yet  with  lustre  enough  to  show  the 
damp  plaster  of  the  ceiling  and  walls,  and  the  massive 
stone  pavement,  the  crevices  of  which  are  oozy  with 
moisture,  not  from  the  incumbent  river,  but  from  hidden 
springs  in  the  earth's  deeper  heart.  There  are  two  paral 
lel  corridors,  with  a  wall  between,  for  the  separate  accom 
modation  of  the  double  throng  of  foot-passengers,  eques 
trians,  and  vehicles  of  all  kinds,  which  was  expected  to 
roll  and  reverberate  continually  through  the  Tunnel. 


286  UP   THE  THAMES. 

Only  one  of  them  has  ever  been  opened,  and  its  echoes 
are  but  feebly  awakened  by  infrequent  footfalls. 

Yet  there  seem  to  be  people  who  spend  their  lives  here, 
and  who  probably  blink  like  owls,  when,  once  or  twice  a 
year,  perhaps,  they  happen  to  climb  into  the  sunshine. 
All  along  the  corridor,  which  I  believe  to  be  a  mile  in 
extent,  we  see  stalls  or  shops  in  little  alcoves,  kept  prin 
cipally  by  women  ;  they  were  of  a  ripe  age,  I  was  glad 
to  observe,  and  certainly  robbed  England  of  none  of  its 
very  moderate  supply  of  feminine  loveliness  by  their  deeper 
than  tomb-like  interment.  As  you  approach,  (and  they 
are  so  accustomed  to  the  dusky  gaslight  that  they  read 
all  your  characteristics  afar  off,)  they  assail  you  with  hun 
gry  entreaties  to  buy  some  of  their  merchandise,  holding 
forth  views  of  the  Tunnel  put  up  in  cases  of  Derbyshire 
spar,  with  a  magnify  ing-glass  at  one  end  to  make  the 
vista  more  effective.  They  offer  you,  besides,  cheap  jew 
elry,  sunny  topazes  and  resplendent  emeralds  for  sixpence, 
and  diamonds  as  big  as  the  Koh-i-noor  at  a  not  much 
heavier  cost,  together  with  a  multifarious  trumpery  which 
has  died  out  of  the  upper  world  to  reappear  in  this  Tar 
tarean  bazaar.  That  you  may  fancy  yourself  still  in  the 
realms  of  the  living,  they  urge  you  to  partake  of  cakes, 
candy,  ginger-beer,  and  such  small  refreshment,  more 
suitable,  however,  for  the  shadowy  appetite  of  ghosts  than 
for  the  sturdy  stomachs  of  Englishmen.  The  most  capa 
cious  of  the  shops  contains  a  dioramic  exhibition  of  cities 
and  scenes  in  the  daylight  world,  with  a  dreary  glimmer 
of  gas  among  them  all ;  so  that  they  serve  well  enough  to 
represent  the  dim,  unsatisfactory  remembrances  that  dend 
people  might  be  supposed  to  retain  from  their  past  lives, 
mixing  them  up  with  the  ghastliness  of  their  unsubstan- 


UP  THE  THAMES.  287 

tial  state.  I  dwell  the  more  upon  these  trifles,  and  do 
my  best  to  give  them  a  mockery  of  importance,  because, 
if  these  are  nothing,  then  all  this  elaborate  contrivance 
and  mighty  piece  of  work  has  been  wrought  in  vain.  The 
Englishman  has  burrowed  under  the  bed  of  his  great 
river,  and  set  ships  of  two  or  three  thousand  tons  a-rolling 
Dver  his  head,  only  to  provide  new  sites  for  a  few  old 
women  to  sell  cakes  and  ginger-beer  ! 

Yet  the  conception  was  a  grand  one  ;  and  though  it  has 
proved  an  absolute  failure,  swallowing  an  immensity  of 
toil  and  money,  with  annual  returns  hardly  sufficient  to 
keep  the  pavement  free  from  the  ooze  of  subterranean 
springs,  yet  it  needs,  I  presume,  only  an  expenditure  three 
or  four  (or,  for  aught  I  know,  twenty)  times  as  large,  to 
make  the  enterprise  brilliantly  successful.  The  descent 
is  so  great  from  the  bank  of  the  river  to  its  surface,  and 
the  Tunnel  dips  so  profoundly  under  the  river's  bed,  that 
the  approaches  on  either  side  must  commence  a  long  way 
off,  in  order  to  render  the  entrance  accessible  to  horsemen 
or  vehicles  ;  so  that  the  larger  part  of  the  cost  of  the  whole 
affair  should  have  been  expended  on  its  margins.  It  has 
turned  out  a  sublime  piece  of  folly ;  and  when  the  New 
Zealander  of  distant  ages  shall  have  moralized  sufficiently 
among  the  ruins  of  London  Bridge,  he  will  bethink 
himself  that  somewhere  thereabout  was  the  marvellous 
Tunnel,  the  very  existence  of  which  will  seem  to  him  as 
incredible  as  that  of  the  hanging  gardens  of  Babylon.  But 
the  Thames  will  long  ago  have  broken  through  the  mas 
sive  arch,  and  choked  up  the  corridors  with  mud  and 
sand  and  with  the  large  stones  of  the  structure  itself, 
intermixed  with  skeletons  of  drowned  people,  the  rusty 
iron-work  of  sunken  vessels,  and  the  great  many  such 


288  UP   THE  THAMES. 

precious  and  curious  things  as  a  river  always  contrives  to 
hide  in  its  bosom ;  the  entrance  will  have  been  obliterated, 
and  its  very  site  forgotten  beyond  the  memory  of  twenty 
generations  of  men,  and  the  whole  neighborhood  be  held 
a  dangerous  spot  on  account  of  the  malaria;  insomuch 
that  the  traveller  will  make  but  a  brief  and  careless  in 
quisition  for  the  traces  of  the  old  wonder,  and  will  stake 
his  credit  before  the  public,  in  some  Pacific  Monthly  of 
that  day,  that  the  story  of  it  is  but  a  myth,  though  en 
riched  with  a  spiritual  profundity  which  he  will  proceed 
to  unfold. 

Yet  it  is  impossible  (for  a  Yankee,  at  least)  to  see 
so  much  magnificent  ingenuity  thrown  away,  without  try 
ing  to  endow  the  unfortunate  result  with  some  kind  of 
usefulness,  though  perhaps  widely  different  from  the  pur 
pose  of  its  original  conception.  In  former  ages,  the  mile- 
long  corridors,  with  their  numerous  alcoves,  might  have 
been  utilized  as  a  series  of  dungeons,  the  fittest  of  all 
possible  receptacles  for  prisoners  of  state.  Dethroned 
monarchs  and  fallen  statesmen  would  not  have  needed  to 
remonstrate  against  a  domicile  so  spacious,  so  deeply 
secluded  from  the  world's  scorn,  and  so  admirably  in  ac 
cordance  with  their  thenceforward  sunless  fortunes.  An 
alcove  here  might  have  suited  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  better 
than  that  darksome  hiding-place  communicating  with  the 
great  chamber  in  the  Tower,  pacing  from  end  to  end  of 
which  he  meditated  upon  his  "  History  of  the  World." 
His  track  would  here  have  been  straight  and  narrow,  in 
deed,  and  would  therefore  have  lacked  somewhat  of  the 
freedom  that  his  intellect  demanded ;  and  yet  tl  e  length 
to  which  his  footsteps  might  have  travelled  forth  and 
retraced  themselves  would  partly  have  harmonized  his 


UP  THE  THAMES.  289 

physical  movement  with  the  grand  curves  and  planetary 
returns  of  his  thought,  through  cycles  of  majestic  peri 
ods.  Having  it  in  his  mind  to  compose  the  world's  his 
tory,  methinks  he  could  have  asked  no  better  retirement 
than  such  a  cloister  as  this,  insulated  from  all  the  seduc 
tions  of  mankind  and  womankind,  deep  beneath  their 
mysteries  and  motives,  down  into  the  heart  of  things,  full 
of  personal  reminiscences  in  order  to  the  comprehensh  e 
measurement  and  verification  of  historic  records,  seeing 
into  the  secrets  of  human  nature,  —  secrets  that  daylight 
never  yet  revealed  to  mortal,  —  but  detecting  their  whole 
scope  and  purport  with  the  infallible  eyes  of  unbroken 
solitude  and  night.  And  then  the  shades  of  the  old 
mighty  men  might  have  risen  from  their  still  profounder 
abodes  and  joined  him  in  the  dim  corridor,  treading  be 
side  him  with  an  antique  stateliness  of  mien,  telling  him 
in  melancholy  tones,  grand,  but  always  melancholy,  of 
the  greater  ideas  and  purposes  which  their  most  renowned 
performances  so  imperfectly  carried  out,  that,  magnificent 
successes  in  the  view  of  all  posterity,  they  were  but  fail 
ures  to  those  who  planned  them.  As  Raleigh  was  a 
navigator,  Noah  would  have  explained  to  him  the  pecu 
liarities  of  construction  that  made  the  ark  so  seaworthy ; 
as  Raleigh  was  a  statesman,  Moses  would  have  discussed 
with  him  the  principles  of  laws  and  government ;  as 
Raleigh  was  a  soldier,  Cassar  and  Hannibal  would  have 
held  debate  in  his  presence,  with  this  martial  student 
for  their  umpire  ;  as  Raleigh  was  a  poet,  David,  or 
whatever  most  illustrious  bard  he  might  call  up,  would 
have  touched  his  harp,  and  made  manifest  all  the  true 
significance  of  the  past  by  means  of  song  and  the  subtle 
intelligences  of  music. 

19 


290  UP  THE  THAMES. 

Meanwhile,  T  had  forgotten  that  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's 
century  knew^  nothing  of  gaslight,  and  that  it  would  re 
quire  a  prodigious  and  wasteful  expenditure  of  tallow 
candles  to  illuminate  the  Tunnel  sufficiently  to  discern 
even  a  ghost.  On  this  account,  however,  it  would  be  all 
the  more  suitable  place  of  confinement  for  a  metaphysi 
cian,  to  keep  him  from  bewildering  mankind  with  his 
shadowy  speculations ;  and,  being  shut  off  from  external 
converse,  the  dark  corridor  would  help  him  to  make  rich 
discoveries  in  those  cavernous  regions  and  mysterious 
by-paths  of  the  intellect,  which  he  had  so  long  accus 
tomed  himself  to  explore.  But  how  would  every  succes 
sive  age  rejoice  in  so  secure  a  habitation  for  its  reformers, 
and  especially  for  each  best  and  wisest  man  that  happened 
to  be  then  alive !  He  seeks  to  burn  up  our  whole  system 
of  society,  under  pretence  of  purifying  it  from  its  abuses ! 
Away  with  him  into  the  Tunnel,  and  let  him  begin  by 
setting  the  Thames  on  fire,  if  he  is  able  ! 

If  not  precisely  these,  yet  akin  to  these  were  some  of 
the  fantasies  that  haunted  me  as  I  passed  under  the 
river :  for  the  place  is  suggestive  of  such  idle  and  irre 
sponsible  stuff  by  its  own  abortive  character,  its  lack  of 
whereabout  on  upper  earth,  or  any  solid  foundation  of 
realities.  Could  I  have  looked  forward  a  few  years,  I 
might  have  regretted  that  American  enterprise  had  not 
provided  a  similar  tunnel,  under  the  Hudson  or  the  Poto 
mac,  for  the  convenience  of  our  National  Government  in 
times  hardly  yet  gone  by.  It  would  be  delightful  to 
clap  up  all  the  enemies  of  our  peace  and  Union  in  the 
dark  together,  and  there  let  them  abide,  listening  to  the 
monotonous  roll  of  the  river  above  their  heads,  or  per 
haps  in  a  state  of  miraculously  suspended  animation, 


T  P   THE  THAMES.  29 1 

nntil,  —  be  it  after  months,  years,  or  centuries,  —  when 
the  turmoil  shall  be  all  over,  the  Wrong  washed  away  in 
blood,  (since  that  must  needs  be  the  cleansing  fluid,)  and 
the  Ri<rht  firmly  rooted  in  the  soil  which  that  blood  will 

O  J 

have  enriched,  they  might  crawl  forth  again  and  catch  a 
single  glimpse  at  their  redeemed  country,  and  feel  it  to 
be  a  better  land  than  they  deserve,  and  die  ! 

I  was  not  sorry  when  the  daylight  reached  me  after  a 
much  briefer  abode  in  the  nether  regions  than,  I  fear, 
would  await  the  troublesome  personages  just  hinted  at. 
Emerging  on  the  Surrey  side  of  the  Thames,  I  found 
myself  in  Rotherhithe,  a  neighborhood  not  unfamiliar  to 
the  readers  of  old  books  of  maritime  adventure.  There 
being  a  ferry  hard  by  the  mouth  of  the  Tunnel,  I  re- 
crossed  the  river  in  the  primitive  fashion  of  an  open 
boat,  which  the  conflict  of  wind  and  tide,  together  with 
the  swash  and  swell  of  the  passing  steamers,  tossed  high 
and  low  rather  tumultuously.  This  inquietude  of  our 
frail  skiff  (which,  indeed,  bobbed  up  and  down  like  a 
cork)  so  much  alarmed  an  old  lady,  the  only  other  pas 
senger,  that  the  boatmen  essayed  to  comfort  her.  "  Never 
fear,  mother !  "  grumbled  one  of  them,  "  we'll  make  the 
river  as  smooth  as  we  can  for  you.  We'll  get  a  plane 
and  plane  down  the  waves  !  "  The  joke  may  not  read 
very  brilliantly ;  but  I  make  bold  to  record  it  as  the  only 
specimen  that  reached  my  ears  of  the  old,  rough  water- 
wit  for  which  the  Thames  used  to  be  so  celebrated, 
Passing  directly  along  the  line  of  the  sunken  Tunnel,  we 
landed  in  Wapping,  which  I  should  have  presupposed  to 
be  the  most  tarry  and  pitchy  spot  on  earth,  swarming 
with  old  salts,  and  full  of  warm,  bustling,  coarse,  homely, 
und  cheerful  life.  Nevertheless,  it  turned  out  to  be  a 


292  UP  THE  THAMES. 

cold  and  torpid  neighborhood,  mean,  shabby,  and  unpio 
turesque,  both  as  to  its  buildings  and  inhabitants  :  the 
latter  comprising  (so  far  as  was  visible  to  me  t  not  a 
single  unmistakable  sailor,  though  plenty  of  land- sharks, 
who  get  a  half  dishonest  livelihood  by  business  connected 
with  the  sea.  Ale  and  spirit  vaults  (as  petty  drinking 
establishments  are  styled  in  England,  pretending  to  con 
tain  vast  cellars  full  of  liquor  within  the  compass  of  ten 
feet  square  above  ground)  were  particularly  abundant, 
together  with  apples,  oranges,  and  oysters,  the  stalls  of 
fishmongers  and  butchers,  and  slop-shops,  where  blue 
jackets  and  duck  trousers  swung  and  capered  before  the 
doors.  Everything  was  on  the  poorest  scale,  and  the 
place  bore  an  aspect  of  unredeemable  decay.  From  this 
remote  point  of  London,  I  strolled  leisurely  towards  the 
heart  of  the  city ;  while  the  streets,  at  first  but  thinly 
occupied  by  man  or  vehicle,  got  more  and  more  thronged 
with  foot-passengers,  carts,  drays,  cabs,  and  the  all-per 
vading  and  all-accommodating  omnibus.  But  I  lack 
courage,  and  feel  that  I  should  lack  perseverance,  as 
the  gentlest  reader  would  lack .  patience,  to  undertake 
a  descriptive  stroll  through  London  streets  ;  more  espe 
cially  as  there  would  be  a  volume  ready  for  the  printer 
before  we  could  reach  a  midway  resting-place  at  Char 
ing  Cross.  It  will  be  the  easier  course  to  step  aboard 
another  passing  steamer,  and  continue  our  trip  up  the 
Thames. 

The  next  notable  group  of  objects  is  an  assemblage  of 
ancient  walls,  battlements,  and  turrets,  out  of  the  midst 
of  which  rises  prominently  one  great  square  tower,  of  a 
grayish  hue,  bordered  with  white  stone,  and  having  a 
small  turret  at  each  corner  of  the  roof.  This  central 


UP  THE  THAMES.  293 

structure  is  the  White  Tower,  and  the  whole  circuit  of 
ramparts  and  enclosed  edifices  constitutes  what  is  known 
in  English  history,  and  still  more  widely  and  impressively 
in  English  poetry,  as  the  Tower.  A  crowd  of  river- 
craft  are  generally  moored  in  front  of  it ;  but  if  we  look 
sharply  at  the  right  moment  under  the  base  of  the  ram 
part,  we  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  an  arched  water- 
entrance,  half  submerged,  past  which  the  Thames  glides 
as  indifferently  as  if  it  were  the  mouth  of  a  city-kennel. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  the  Traitor's  Gate,  a  dreary  kind  of 
triumphal  passage-way,  (now  supposed  to  be  shut  up  and 
barred  forever,)  through  which  a  multitude  of  noble  and 
illustrious  personages  have  entered  the  Tower,  and  found 
it  a  brief  resting-place  on  their  way  to  heaven.  Passing 
it  many  times,  I  never  observed  that  anybody  glanced  at 
this  shadowy  and  ominous  trap-door,  save  myself.  It  is 
well  that  America  exists,  if  it  were  only  that  her  vagrant 
children  may  be  impressed  and  affected  by  the  historical 
monuments  of  England  in  a  degree  of  which  the  native 
inhabitants  are  evidently  incapable.  These  matters  are 
too  familiar,  too  real,  and  too  hopelessly  built  in  amongst 
and  mixed  up  with  the  common  objects  and  affairs  of  life, 
to  be  easily  susceptible  of  imaginative  coloring  in  their 
minds  ;  and  even  their  poets  and  romancers  feel  it  a  toil, 
and  almost  a  delusion,  to  extract  poetic  material  out  of 
what  seems  embodied  poetry  itself  to  an  American.  An 
Englishman  cares  nothing  about  the  Tower,  which  to  us 
is  a  haunted  castle  in  dreamland.  That  honest  and  excel 
lent  gentleman,  the  late  Mr.  G.  P.  R.  James,  (whose 
mechanical  ability,  one  might  have  supposed,  would  nour 
ish  itself  by  devouring  every  old  stone  of  such  a  struct 
ure,)  once  assured  me  that  he  had  never  in  his  lifo 


294  UP  THE  THAMES. 

set  eyes  upon  the  Tower,  though  for  years  an  historic 
novelist  in  London. 

Not  to  spend  a  whole  summer's  day  upon  the  voyage, 
we  will  suppose  ourselves  to  have  reached  London  Bridge, 
and  thence  to  have  taken  another  steamer  for  a  farther 
passage  up  the  river.  But  here  the  memorable  objects 
succeed  each  other  so  rapidly  that  I  can  spare  but  a 
single  sentence  even  for  the  great  Dome,  though  I  deem 
it  more  picturesque,  in  that  dusky  atmosphere,  than  St. 
Peter's  in  its  clear  blue  sky.  I  must  mention,  however, 
(since  everything  connected  with  royalty  is  especially  in 
teresting  to  my  dear  countrymen,)  that  I  once  saw  a  large 
and  beautiful  barge,  splendidly  gilded  and  ornamented, 
and  overspread  with  a  rich  covering,  lying  at  the  pier 
nearest  to  St.  Paul's  Cathedral ;  it  had  the  royal  banner 
of  Great  Britain  displayed,  besides  being  decorated  with 
a  number  of  other  flags  ;  and  many  footmen  (who  are 
universally  the  grandest  and  gaudiest  objects  to  be  seen 
in  England  at  this  day,  and  these  were  regal  ones,  in  a 
bright  scarlet  livery  bedizened  with  gold  lace,  and  white 
silk  stockings)  were  in  attendance.  I  know  not  what 
festive  or  ceremonial  occasion  may  have  drawn  out  this 
pageant ;  after  all,  it  might  have  been  merely  a  city- 
spectacle,  appertaining  to  the  Lord  Mayor ;  but  the  sight 
had  its  value  in  bringing  vividly  before  me  the  grand  old 
times  when  the  sovereign  and  nobles  were  accustomed 
to  use  the  Thames  as  the  high  street  of  the  metropolis, 
and  join  in  pompous  processions  upon  it ;  whereas,  the 
desuetude  of  such  customs,  nowadays,  has  caused  the 
whole  show  of  river-life  to  consist  in  a  multitude  of 
gmoke-begrimed  steamers.  An  analogous  change  has 
taken  place  in  the  streets,  where  cabs  and  the  omnibus 


UP  THE  THAMES.  295 

hare  crowded  out  a  rich  variety  of  vehicles  ;  and  thus 
life  gets  more  monotonous  in  hue  from  age  to  age,  and 
appears  to  seize  every  opportunity  to  strip  off  a  bit  of  ita 
gold  lace  among  the  wealthier  classes,  and  to  make  itself 
decent  in  the  lower  ones. 

Yonder  is  Whitefriars,  the  old  rowdy  Alsatia,  now 
wearing  as  decorous  a  face  as  any  other  portion  of  Lon 
Jon  ;  and,  adjoining  it,  the  avenues  and  brick  squares  of 
the  Temple,  with  that  historic  garden,  close  upon  the 
riverside,  and  still  rich  in  shrubbery  and  flowers,  where 
the  partisans  of  York  and  Lancaster  plucked  the  fatal 
roses,  and  scattered  their  pale  and  bloody  petals  over  so 
many  English  battlefields.  Hard  by,  we  see  the  long 
white  front  or  rear  xof  Somerset  House,  and,  farther  on, 
rise  the  two  new  Houses  of  Parliament,  with  a  huge 
unfinished  tower  already  hiding  its  imperfect  summit  in 
the  smoky  canopy,  —  the  whole  vast  and  cumbrous  edifice 
a  specimen  of  the  best  that  modern  architecture  can 
effect,  elaborately  imitating  the  masterpieces  of  those 
simple  ages  when  men  "  builded  better  than  they  knew." 
Close  by  it,  wre  have  a  glimpse  of  the  roof  and  upper 
towers  of  the  holy  Abbey ;  while  that  gray,  ancestral 
pile  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  is  Lambeth  Palace, 
a  venerable  group  of  halls  and  turrets,  chiefly  built  of 
brick,  but  with  at  least  one  large  tower  of  stone.  In  our 
course,  we  have  passed  beneath  half  a  dozen  bridges,  and, 
emerging  out  of  the  black  heart  of  London,  shall  soon 
reach  a  cleanly  suburb,  where  old  Father  Thames,  if  I 
remember,  begins  to  put  on  an  aspect  of  unpolluted  inno 
cence.  And  now  we  look  back  upon  the  mass  of  innu 
merable  roofs,  out  of  which  rise  steeples,  towers,  columns, 
<md  the  great  crowning  Dome.  —  look  back,  in  short. 


296  UP  THE  THAMES. 

upon  that  mystery  of  the  world's  proudest  city,  amid 
which  a  man  so  longs  and  loves  to  be  :  not,  perhaps,  be 
cause  it  contains  much  that  is  positively  admirable  and 
enjoyable,  but  because,  at  all  events,  the  world  has  noth 
ing  better.  The  cream  of  external  life  is  there ;  and 
whatever  merely  intellectual  or  material  good  we  fail  to 
find  perfect  in  London,  we  may  as  well  content  ourselves 
to  seek  that  unattainable  thing  no  farther  on  this  earth. 

The  steamer  terminates  its  trip  at  Chelsea,  an  old 
town  endowed  with  a  prodigious  number  of  pot-houses, 
and  some  famous  gardens,  called  the  Cremorne,  for  public 
amusement.  The  most  noticeable  thing,  however,  is 
Chelsea  Hospital,  which,  like  that  of  Greenwich,  was 
founded,  I  believe,  by  Charles  II.,  (whose  bronze  statue, 
in  the  guise  of  an  old  Roman,  stands  in  the  centre  of  the 
quadrangle,)  and  appropriated  as  a  home  for  aged  and 
infirm  soldiers  of  the  British  army.  The  edifices  are  of 
three  stories  with  windows  in  the  high  roofs,  and  are 
built  of  dark,  sombre  brick,  with  stone  edgings  and  fac 
ings.  The  effect  is  by  no  means  that  of  grandeur,  (which 
is  somewhat  disagreeably  an  attribute  of  Greenwich  Hos 
pital,)  but  a  quiet  and  venerable  neatness.  At  each  ex 
tremity  of  the  street-front  there  is  a  spacious  and  hospi 
tably  open  gateway,  lounging  about  which  I  saw  some 
gray  veterans  in  long  scarlet  coats  of  an  antique  fashion, 
and  the  cocked  hats  of  a  century  ago,  or  occasionally  a 
modern  foraging-cap.  Almost  all  of  them  moved  with  a 
rheumatic  gait,  two  or  three  stumped  on  wooden  legs,  and 
here  and  there  an  arm  was  missing.  Inquiring  of  one 
of  these  fragmentary  heroes  whether  a  stranger  could  be 
admitted  to  see  the  establishment,  he  replied  most  cordi 
ally,  "  0  yes,  Sir, —  anywhere  !  Walk  in  and  go  where 


UP  THE  THAMES.  297 

yen  please,  —  up-stairs,  or  anywhere!"  So  I  entered, 
and,  passing  along  the  inner  side  of  the  quadrangle,  came 
to  the  door  of  the  chapel,  which  forms  a  part  of  the  con 
tiguity  of  edifices  next  the  street.  Here  another  pen 
sioner,  an  old  warrior  of  exceedingly  peaceable  and  Chris 
tian  demeanor,  touched  his  three-cornered  hat  and  asked 
if  I  wished  to  see  the  interior ;  to  which  I  assenting,  he 
unlocked  the  door,  and  we  went  in. 

The  chapel  consists  of  a  great  hall  with  a  vaulted  roof, 
and  over  the  altar  is  a  large  painting  in  fresco,  the  subject 
of  which  I  did  not  trouble  myself  to  make  out.  More 
appropriate  adornments  of  the  place,  dedicated  as  well  to 
martial  reminiscences  as  religious  worship,  are  the  long 
ranges  of  dusty  and  tattered  banners  that  hang  from  their 
staves  all  round  the  ceiling  of  the  chapel.  They  are 
trophies  of  battles  fought  and  won  in  every  quarter  of 
the  world,  comprising  the  captured  flags  of  all  the  nations 
with  whom  the  British  lion  has  waged  war  since  James 
II.'s  time,  —  French,  Dutch,  East  Indian,  Prussian,  Rus 
sian,  Chinese,  and  American,  —  collected  together  in  this 
consecrated  spot,  not  to  symbolize  that  there  shall  be 
no  more  discord  upon  earth,  but  drooping  over  the  aisle 
in  sullen,  though  peaceable  humiliation.  Yes,  I  said 
"  American  "  among  the  rest ;  for  the  good  old  pensioner 
mistook  me  for  an  Englishman,  and  failed  not  to  point 
out  (and,  methought,  with  an  especial  emphasis  of  tri 
umph)  some  flags  that  had  been  taken  at  Bladensburg 
and  Washington.  I  fancied,  indeed,  that  they  hung  a 
little  higher  and  drooped  a  little  lower  than  any  of  their 
companions  in  disgrace.  It  is  a  comfort,  however,  that 
their  proud  devices  are  already  indistinguishable,  or  nearly 
BO,  owing  to  dust  and  tatters  and  the  kind  offices  of  tf*0 


298  UP  THE  THAMES. 

moths,  and  that  they  will  soon  rot  from  the  banner-staves 
and  be  swept  out  in  unrecognized  fragments  from  the 
chapel-door. 

It  is  a  good  method  of  teaching  a  man  how  imperfectly 
cosmopolitan  he  is.  to  show  him  his  country's  flag  occupy 
ing  a  position  of  dishonor  in  a  foreign  land.  But,  in  truth, 
the  whole  system  of  a  people  crowing  over  its  military 
triumphs  had  far  better  be  dispensed  with,  both  on  ac 
count  of  the  ill-blood  that  it  helps  to  keep  fermenting 
among  the  nations,  aad  because  it  operates  as  an  accumu 
lative  inducement  to  future  generations  to  aim  at  a  kind 
of  glory,  the  gain  of  which  has  generally  proved  more 
ruinous  than  its  loss.  I  heartily  wish  that  every  trophy 
of  victory  might  crumble  away,  and  that  every  reminis 
cence  or  tradition  of  a  hero,  from  the  beginning  of  the 
world  to  this  day,  could  pnss  out  of  all  men's  memories  at 
once  and  forever.  I  might  feel  very  differently,  to  be 
sure,  if  we  Northerners  had  anything  especially  valuable 
to  lose  by  the  fading  of  those  illumniated  names. 

I  gave  the  pensioner  (but  I  am  afraid  there  may  have 
been  a  little  affectation  in  it)  a  magnificent  guerdon  of 
all  the  silver  I  had  in  my  pocket,  to  requite  him  for  hav 
ing  unintentionally  stirred  up  my  patriotic  susceptibilities. 
He  was  a  meek -looking,  kindly  old  man,  with  a  humble 
freedom  and  affability  of  manner  that  made  it  pleasant 
to  converse  with  him.  Old  soldiers,  I  know  not  why, 
eeem  to  be  more  accostable  than  old  sailors.  One  is  apt 
to  hear  a  growl  beneath  the  smoothest  courtesy  of  the 
latter.  The  mild  veteran,  with  his  peaceful  voice,  and 
gentle,  reverend  aspect,  told  me  that  he  had  fought  at  a 
cannon  all  through  the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  and  escaped 
unhurt ;  he  had  now  been  in  the  hospital  four  or  five 


UP  THE  THAMES.  299 

years,  and  was  married,  but  necessarily  underwent  a  sepa 
ration  from  his  wife,  who  lived  outside  of  the  gates.  To 
my  inquiry  whether  his  fellow-pensioners  were  comfortable 
and  happy,  he  answered,  with  great  alacrity,  "  O  yes, 
Sir ! "  qualifying  his  evidence,  after  a  moment's  considera 
tion,  by  saying,  in  an  undertone,  "  There  are  some  people, 
your  Honor  knows,  who  could  not  be  comfortable  any 
where."  I  did  know  it,  and  fear  that  the  system  of  Chel 
sea  Hospital  allows  too  little  of  that  wholesome  care  ano 
regulation  of  their  own  occupations  and  interests  which 
might  assuage  the  sting  of  life  to  those  naturally  uncom 
fortable  individuals  by  giving  them  something  external  to 
think  about.  But  my  old  friend  here  was  happy  in  the 
hospital,  and  by  this  time,  very  likely,  is  happy  in  heaven, 
in  spite  of  the  bloodshed  that  he  may  have  caused  by 
touching  off  a  cannon  at  Waterloo. 

Crossing  Battersea  Bridge,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Chelsea,  I  remember  seeing  a  distant  gleam  of  the  Crys 
tal  Palace,  glimmering  afar  in  the  afternoon  sunshine  like 
an  imaginary  structure,  —  an  air-castle  by  chance  de 
scended  upon  earth,  and  resting  there  one  instant  before 
it  vanished,  as  we  sometimes  see  a  soap-bubble  touch  un 
harmed  on  the  carpet,  —  a  thing  of  only  momentary  visi 
bility  and  no  substance,  destined  to  be  overburdened  and 
crushed  down  by  the  first  cloud-shadow  that  might  fall 
upon  that  spot.  Even  as  I  looked,  it  disappeared.  Shall 
I  attempt  a  picture  of  this  exhalation  of  modern  inge 
nuity,  or  what  else  shall  I  try  to  paint  ?  Everything  in 
London  and  its  vicinity  has  been  depicted  innumerable 
times,  but  never  once  translated  into  intelligible  images  ; 
it  is  an  "  old,  old  story,"  never  yet  told,  nor  to  be  told. 
While  writing  these  reminiscences,  I  am  continually  inv 


300  UP  THE  THAMES. 

pressed  with  the  futility  of  the  effort  to  give  any  creative 
truth  to  my  sketch,  so  that  it  might  produce  such  pictures 
in  the  reader's  mind  as  would  cause  the  original  scenes 
to  appear  familiar  when  afterwards  beheld.  Nor  have 
other  writers  often  been  more  successful  in  representing 
definite  objects  prophetically  to  my  own  mind.  In  truth, 
1  believe  that  the  chief  delight  and  advantage  of  this 
kind  of  literature  is  not  for  any  real  information  that  it 
supplies  to  untravelled  people,  but  for  reviving  the  recol 
lections  and  reawakening  the  emotions  of  persons  already 
acquainted  with  the  scenes  described.  Thus  I  found  an 
exquisite  pleasure,  the  other  day,  in  reading  Mr.  Tucker- 
man's  "  Month  in  England,"  —  a  fine  example  of  the  way 
in  which  a  refined  and  cultivated  American  looks  at  the 
Old  Country,  the  things  that  he  naturally  seeks  there, 
and  the  modes  of  feeling  and  reflection  which  they  excite. 
Correct  outlines  avail  little  or  nothing,  though  truth  of 
coloring  may  be  somewhat  more  efficacious.  Impressions, 
however,  states  of  mind  produced  by  interesting  and  re 
markable  objects,  these,  if  truthfully  and  vividly  recorded, 
may  work  a  genuine  effect,  and,  though  but  the  result  of 
what  we  see,  go  farther  towards  representing  the  actual 
scene  than  any  direct  effort  to  paint  it.  Give  the  emo 
tions  that  cluster  about  it,  and,  without  being  able  to  ana 
lyze  the  spell  by  which  it  is  summoned  up,  you  get  some 
thing  like  a  simulachre  of  the  object  in  the  midst  of 
them.  From  some  of  the  above  reflections  I  draw  the 
comfortable  inference,  that,  the  longer  and  better  known 
a  thing  may  be,  so  much  the  more  eligible  is  it  as  the 
subject  of  a  descriptive  sketch. 

On  a  Sunday  afternoon,  I  passed  through  a  side-en 
trance  in  the  time-blackened  wall  of  a  place  of  worship. 


UP   THE  THAMES.  301 

nnd  found  myself  among  a  congregation  assembled  in  one 
of  the  transepts  and  the  immediately  contiguous  portion 
of  the  nave.  It  was  a  vast  old  edifice,  spacious  enough, 
within  the  extent  covered  by  its  pillared  roof  and  over 
spread  by  its  stone  pavement,  to  accommodate  the  whole 
of  church-going  London,  and  with  a  far  wider  and  loftier 
concave  than  any  human  power  of  lungs  could  fill  with 
audible  prayer.  Oaken  benches  were  arranged  in  the 
transept,  on  one  of  which  I  seated  myself,  and  joined,  as 
well  as  I  knew  how,  in  the  sacred  business  that  was  going 
forward.  But  when  it  came  to  the  sermon,  the  voice  of 
the  preacher  was  puny,  and  so  were  his  thoughts,  and 
both  seemed  impertinent  at  such  a  time  and  place,  where 
he  and  all  of  us  were  bodily  included  within  a  sublime 
act  of  religion,  which  could  be  seen  above  and  around  us 
and  felt  beneath  our  feet.  The  structure  itself  was  the 
worship  of  the  devout  men  of  long  ago,  miraculously  pre 
served  in  stone  without  losing  an  atom  of  its  fragrance 
and  fervor ;  it  was  a  kind  of  anthem-strain  that  they  had 
sung  and  poured  out  of  the  organ  in  centuries  gone  by  ; 
and  being  so  gran-d  and  sweet,  the  Divine  benevolence 
had  willed  it  to  be  prolonged  for  the  behoof  of  auditors 
unborn.  I  therefore  came  to  the  conclusion,  that,  in  my 
individual  case,  it  would  be  better  and  more  reverent  to 
let  my  eyes  wander  about  the  edifice  than  to  fasten  them 
and  my  thoughts  on  the  evidently  uninspired  mortal  who 
was  venturing  —  and  felt  it  no  venture  at  all  —  to  speak 
here  above  his  breath. 

The  interior  of  Westminster  Abbey  (for  the  reader 
recognized  it,  no  doubt,  the  moment  we  entered)  is  built 
of  rich  brown  stone  ;  and  the  whole  of  it  —  the  lofty 
roof,  the  tall,  clustered  pillars,  and  the  pointed  arches  — 


302  UP   THE  THAMES. 

appears  to  be  in  consummate  repair.  At  all  points  where 
decay  lias  laid  its  finger,  the  structure  is  clamped  with 
iron,  or  otherwise  carefully  protected  ;  and  being  thus 
watched  over,  —  whether  as  a  place  of  ancient  sanctity,  a 
noble  specimen  of  Gothic  art,  or  an  object  of  national 
interest  and  pride,  —  it  may  reasonably  be  expected  to 
survive  for  as  many  ages  as  have  passed  over  it  already. 
It  was  sweet  to  feel  its  venerable  quietude,  its  long-endur 
ing  peace,  and  yet  to  observe  how  kindly  and  even  cheer 
fully  it  received  the  sunshine  of  to-day,  which  fell  from 
the  great  windows  into  the  fretted  aisles?  and  arches  that 
laid  aside  somewhat  of  their  aged  gloom  to  welcome  it. 
Sunshine  always  seems  friendly  to  old  abbeys,  churches, 
and  castles,  kissing  them,  as  it  were,  with  a  more  affec 
tionate,  though  still  reverential  familiarity,  than  it  accords 
to  edifices  of  later  date.  A  square  of  golden  light  lay  on 
the  sombre  pavement  of  the  nave,  afar  off,  falling  through 
the  grand  western  entrance,  the  folding  leaves  of  which 
were  wide  open,  and  afforded  glimpses  of  people  passing 
to  and  fro  in  the  outer  world,  while  we  sat  dimly  envel 
oped  in  the  solemnity  of  antique  devotion.  In  the  south 
transept,  separated  from  us  by  the  full  breadtli  of  the 
minster,  there  were  painted  glass  windows,  of  which  the 
uppermost  appeared  to  be  a  great  orb  of  many-colored 
radiance,  being,  indeed,  a  cluster  of  saints  and  angels 
whose  glorified  bodies  formed  the  rays  of  an  aureole 
emanating  from  a  cross  in  the  midst.  These  windows 
are  modern,  but  combine  softness  with  wonderful  bril 
liancy  of  effect.  Through  the  pillars  and  arches,  I  saw 
that  the  walls  in  that  distant  region  of  the  edifice  were 
almost  wholly  incrusted  with  marble,  now  grown  yellow 
with  time,  no  blank,  unlettered  slabs,  but  memorials  of 


UP  THE  THAMES.  303 

*&  men  as  their  respective  generations  deemed  wisest 
JL  )  bravest.  Some  of  them  were  commemorated  merely 
by  iu/uiptions  on  mural  tablets,  others  by  sculptured  bas- 
relibfe,  others  (once  famous,  but  now  forgotten  generals  or 
admiral*,  these)  by  ponderous  tombs  that  aspired  towards 
the  roof  of  the  aisle,  or  partly  curtained  the  immense  arch 
of  a  winnow.  These  mountains  of  marble  were  peopled 
with  the  rflsterhood  of  Allegory,  winged  trumpeters,  and 
classic  figures  in  full-bottomed  wigs ;  but  it  was  strange  to 
observe  ho\»  the  old  Abbey  melted  all  such  absurdities  into 
the  breadth  of  its  own  grandeur,  even  magnifying  itself 
by  what  womcc  elsewhere  have  been  ridiculous.  Methinks 
it  is  the  test  ut'  Gothic  sublimity  to  overpower  the  ridic 
ulous  without  deigning  to  hide  it ;  and  these  grotesque 
monuments  of  the  last  century  answer  a  similar  purpose 
with  the  grinning  faces  which  the  old  architects  scattered 
among  their  most  solemn  conceptions. 

From  these  distant  wanderings,  (it  was  my  first  visit 
to  Westminster  Abbey,  and  I  would  gladly  have  taken  it 
all  in  at  a  glance,)  my  eyes  came  back  and  began  to  in 
vestigate  what  was  immediately  about  me  in  the  transept. 
Close  at  my  elbow  was  the  pedestal  of  Canning's  statue. 
Next  beyond  it  was  a  massive  tomb,  on  the  spacious  tab 
let  of  which  reposed  the  full-length  figures  of  a  marble 
lord  and  lady,  whom  an  inscription  announced  to  be  the 
Duke  and  Duchess  of  Newcastle,  —  the  historic  Duke 
of  Charles  I.'s  time,  and  the  fantastic  Duchess,  tradition 
ally  remembered  by  her  poems  and  plays.  She  was  of 
a  family,  as  the  record  on  her  tomb  proudly  informed  us, 
of  which  all  the  brothers  had  been  valiant  and  All  the 
sisters  virtuous.  A  recent  statue  of  Sir  John  Malcolm, 
the  new  marble  as  white  as  snow,  held  the  next  place  * 


304  UP   THE  THAMES. 

and  near  by  was  a  mural  monument  and  bust  of  Sir 
Peter  Warren.  The  round  visage  of  this  old  British 
admiral  has  a  certain  interest  for  a  New  Englander,  be 
cause  it  was  by  no  merit  of  his  own,  (though  he  took 
care  to  assume  it  as  such,)  but  by  the  valor  and  warlike 
enterprise  of  our  colonial  forefathers,  especially  the  stout 
men  of  Massachusetts,  that  he  won  rank  and  renown 
and  a  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Lord  Mansfield,  a 
huge  mass  of  marble  done  into  the  guise  of  a  judicial 
gown  and  wig,  with  a  stern  face  in  the  midst  of  the  lat 
ter,  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  transept ;  and  on  the 
pedestal  beside  him  was  a  figure  of  Justice,  holding  forth, 
instead  of  the  customary  grocer's  scales,  an  actual  pair 
of  brass  steelyards.  It  is  an  ancient  and  classic  instru 
ment,  undoubtedly ;  but  I  had  supposed  that  Portia 
(when  Shylock's  pound  of  flesh  was  to  be  weighed)  was 
the  only  judge  that  ever  really  called  for  it  in  a  court  of 
justice.  Pitt  and  Fox  were  in  the  same  distinguished 
company  ;  and  John  Kemble,  in  Roman  costume,  stood 
not  far  off,  but  strangely  shorn  of  the  dignity  that  is  said 
to  have  enveloped  him  like  a  mantle  in  his  lifetime. 
Perhaps  the  evanescent  majesty  of  the  stage  is  incom 
patible  with  the  long  endurance  of  marble  and  the  sol 
emn  reality  of  the  tomb  ;  though,  on  the  other  hand, 
almost  every  illustrious  personage  here  represented  has 
been  invested  with  more  or  less  of  stage-trickery  by  his 
sculptor.  In  truth,  the  artist  (unless  there  be  a  divine 
efficacy  in  his  touch,  making  evident  a  heretofore  hidden 
dignity  in  the  actual  form)  feels  it  an  imperious  law  to 
remove  his  subject. as  far  from  the  aspect  of  ordinary  life 
as  may  be  possible  without  sacrificing  every  trace  of  re 
semblance.  The  absurd  effect  of  the  contrary  course  is 


UP  THE  THAMES.  305 

very  remarkable  in  the  statue  of  Mr.  Wilberforce,  whose 
actual  self,  save  for  the  lack  of  color,  I  seemed  to  behold, 
seated  just  across  the  aisle. 

This  excellent  man  appears  to  have  sunk  into  himself 
in  a  sitting  posture,  with  a  thin  leg  crossed  over  his  knee, 
a  book  in  one  hand,  and  a  finger  of  the  other  under  his 
chin,  I  believe,  or  applied  to  the  side  of  his  nose,  or  to 
some  equally  familiar  purpose  ;  while  his  exceedingly 
homely  and  wrinkled  face,  held  a  little  on  one  side,  twin 
kles  at  you  with  the  shrewdest  complacency,  as  if  he  were 
looking  right  into  your  eyes,  and  twigged  something  there 
which  you  had  half  a  mind  to  conceal  from  him.  He 
keeps  this  look  so  pertinaciously  that  you  feel  it  to  be 
insufferably  impertinent,  and  bethink  yourself  what  com 
mon  ground  there  may  be  between  yourself  and  a  stone 
image,  enabling  you  to  resent  it.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
the  statue  is  as  like  Mr.  Wilberforce  as  one  pea  .to  an 
other,  and  you  might  fancy,  that,  at  some  ordinary  mo 
ment,  when  he  least  expected  it,  and  before  he  had  time 
to  smooth  away  his  knowing  complication  of  wrinkles,  he 
had  seen  the  Gorgon's  head,  and  whitened  into  marble,  — 
not  only  his  personal  self,  but  his  coat  and  small-clothes, 
down  to  a  button  and  the  minutest  crease  of  the  cloth. 
The  ludicrous  result  marks  the  impropriety  of  bestowing 
the  age-long  duration  of  marble  upon  small,  characteristic 
individualities,  such  as  might  come  within  the  province 
of  waxen  imagery.  The  sculptor  should  give  perma 
nence  to  the  figure  of  a  great  man  in  his  mood  of  broad 
and  grand  composure,  which  would  obliterate  all  mean 
peculiarities  ;  for,  if  the  original  were  unaccustomed  to 
such  a  mood,  or  if  his  features  were  incapable  of  assum 
ing  the  guise,  it  seems  questionable  whether  he  could 
20 


UP  THE  THAMES. 

really  have  been  entitled  to  a  marble  immortality.  In 
point  of  fact,  however,  the  English  face  and  form  are 
eeldom  statuesque,  however  illustrious  the  individual. 

It  ill  becomes  me,  perhaps,  to  have  lapsed  into  this 
mood  of  half-jocose  criticism  in  describing  my  first  visit 
to  Westminster  Abbey,  a  spot  which  I  had  dreamed 
about  more  reverentially,  from  my  childhood  upward, 
than  any  other  in  the  world,  and  which  I  then  beheld, 
and  now  look  back  upon,  with  profound  gratitude  to  the 
men  who  built  it,  and  a  kindly  interest,  I  may  add,  in  the 
humblest  personage  that  has  contributed  his  little  all  to 
its  impressiveness,  by  depositing  his  dust  or  his  memory 
there.  But  it  is  a  characteristic  of  this  grand  edifice 
that  it  permits  you  to  smile  as  freely  under  the  roof  of 
its  central  nave  as  if  you  stood  beneath  the  yet  grander 
canopy  of  heaven.  Break  into  laughter,  if  you  feel  in 
clined,  provided  the  vergers  do  not  hear  it  echoing  among 
the  arches.  In  an  ordinary  church  you  would  keep  your 
countenance  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  sanctities  or  pro 
prieties  of  the  place  ;  but  you  need  leave  no  honest  and 
decorous  portion  of  your  human  nature  outside  of  these 
benign  and  truly  hospitable  walls.  Their  mild  awfulness 
will  take  care  of  itself.  Thus  it  does  no  harm  to  the 
general  impression,  when  you  come  to  be  sensible  that 
many  of  the  monuments  are  ridiculous,  and  commemorate 
a  mob  of  people  who  are  mostly  forgotten  in  their  graves, 
and  few  of  whom  ever  deserved  any  better  boon  from 
posterity.  You  acknowledge  the  force  of  Sir  Godfrey 
Kneller's  objection  to  being  buried  in  Westminster  Ab 
bey,  because  "  they  do  bury  fools  there  !  "  Nevertheless, 
these  grotesque  carvings  of  marble,  that  break  out  in 
dingy -white  blotches  on  the  old  freestone  of  the  interior 


UP   THE  THAMES.  307 

walls,  have  come  there  by  as  natural  a  process  as  might 
cause  mosses  and  ivy  to  cluster  about  the  external  edifice ; 
for  they  are  the  historical  and  biographical  record  of 
each  successive  age,  written  with  its  own  hand,  and  all 
the  truer  for  the  inevitable  mistakes,  and  none  the  less 
solemn  for  the  occasional  absurdity.  Though  you  en 
tered  the  Abbey  expecting  to  see  the  tombs  only  of  th 
illustrious,  you  are  content  at  last  to  read  many  names, 
both  in  literature  and  history,  that  have  now  lost  the 
reverence  of  mankind,  if  indeed  they  ever  really  pos 
sessed  it.  Let  these  men  rest  in  peace.  Even  if  you 
miss  a  name  or  two  that  you  hoped  to  find  there,  they 
may  well  be  spared.  It  matters  little  a  few  more  or  less 
or  whether  Westminster  Abbey  contains  or  lacks  any 
one  man's  grave,  so  long  as  the  Centuries,  each  with  the 
crowd  of  personages  that  it  deemed  memorable,  have 
chosen  it  as  their  place  of  honored  sepulture,  and  laid 
themselves  down  under  its  pavement.  The  inscriptions 
and  devices  on  the  walls  are  rich  with  evidences  of  the 
fluctuating  tastes,  fashions,  manners,  opinions,  prejudices, 
follies,  wisdoms  of  the  past,  and  thus  they  combine  into  a 
more  truthful  memorial  of  their  dead  times  than  any  in 
dividual  epitaph-maker  ever  meant  to  write. 

When  the  services  were  over,  many  of  the  audience 
seemed  inclined  to  linger  in  the  nave  or  wander  away 
among  the  mysterious  aisles ;  for  there  is  nothing  in  this 
world  so  fascinating  as  a  Gothic  minster,  which  always 
invites  you  deeper  and  deeper  into  its  heart  both  by  vast 
revelations  and  shadowy  concealments.  Through  the 
open-work  screen  that  divides  the  nave  from  the  chancel 
and  choir,  we  could  discern  the  gleam  of  a  marvellous 
window,  but  were  debarred  from  entrance  into  that  more 


808  UP  THE  THAMES. 

eacred  precinct  of  the  Abbey  by  the  vergers.  Thess 
vigilant  officials  (doing  their  duty  all  the  more  strenu 
ously  because  no  fees  could  be  exacted  from  Sunday 
visitors)  flourished  their  staves,  and  drove  us  towards  the 
grand  entrance  like  a  flock  of  sheep.  Lingering  through 
one  of  the  aisles,  I  happened  to  look  down,  and  found  my 
foot  upon  a  stone  inscribed  with  this  familiar  exclamation, 
*•  0  rare  Ben  Jonson ! "  and  remembered  the  story  of 
stout  old  Ben's  burial  in  that  spot,  standing  upright,  — 
not,  I  presume,  on  account  of  any  unseemly  reluctance 
on  his  part  to  lie  down  in  the  dust,  like  other  men,  but 
because  standing-room  was  all  that  could  reasonably  be 
demanded  for  a  poet  among  the  slumberous  notabilities 
of  his  age.  It  made  me  weary  to  think  of  it !  —  such  a 
prodigious  length  of  time  to  keep  one's  feet !  —  apart 
from  the  honor  of  the  thing,  it  would  certainly  have  been 
better  for  Ben  to  stretch  himself  at  ease  in  some  country- 
churchyard.  To  this  day,  however,  I  fancy  that  there  is 
a  contemptuous  alloy  mixed  up  with  the  admiration 
which  the  higher  classes  of  English  society  profess  for 
their  literary  men. 

Another  day  —  in  truth,  many  other  days  —  I  sought 
out  Poets'  Corner,  and  found  a  sign-board  and  pointed 
finger,  directing  the  visitor  to  it,  on  the  corner  house  of 
a  little  lane  leading  towards  the  rear  of  the  Abbey.  The 
entrance  is  at  the  southeastern  end  of  the  south  transept, 
and  it  is  used,  on  ordinary  occasions,  as  the  only  free 
mode  of  access  to  the  building.  It  is  no  spacious  arch, 
but  a  small,  lowly  door,  passing  through  which,  and  push 
ing  aside  an  inner  screen  that  partly  keeps  out  an  exceed 
ingly  chill  wind,  you  find  yourself  in  a  dim  nook  of  the 
Abbey,  with  the  busts  of  poets  gazing  at  you  from  the 


VIP   THE  THAMES.  309 

otherwise  bare  stonework  of  the  walls.  Great  poets, 
too  ;  for  Ben  Joiison  is  right  behind  the  door,  and  Spen 
ser's  tablet  is  next,  and  Butler's  on  the  same  side  of  the 
transept,  and  Milton's  (whose  bust  you  know  at  once  by 
its  resemblance  to  one  of  his  portraits,  though  older,  more 
wrinkled,  and  sadder  than  that)  is  close  by,  and  a  profile- 
medallion  of  Gray  beneath  it.  A  window  high  aloft 
sheds  down  a  dusky  daylight  on  these  and  many  other 
sculptured  marbles,  now  as  yellow  as  old  parchment,  that 
cover  the  three  walls  of  the  nook  up  to  an  elevation  of 
about  twenty  feet  above  the  pavement.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  had  always  been  familiar  with  the  spot.  Enjoying 
a  humble  intimacy  —  and  how  much  of  my  life  had  else 
been  a  dreary  solitude  !  —  with  many  of  its  inhabitants, 
I  could  not  feel  myself  a  stranger  there.  It  was  delight 
ful  to  be  among  them.  There  was  a  genial  awe,  mingled 
with  a  sense  of  kind  and  friendly  presences  about  me  ; 
and  I  was  glad,  moreover,  at  finding  so  many  of  them 
there  together,  in  fit  companionship,  mutually  recognized 
and  duly  honored,  all  reconciled  now,  whatever  distant 
generations,  whatever  personal  hostility  or  other  miser 
able  impediment,  had  divided  them  far  asunder  while 
they  lived.  I  have  never  felt  a  similar  interest  in  any 
other  tombstones,  nor  have  I  ever  been  deeply  moved  by 
the  imaginary  presence  of  other  famous  dead  people. 
A  poet's  ghost  is  the  only  one  that  survives  for  his  fellow- 
mortals,  after  his  bones  are  in  the  dust,  —  and  he  not 
ghostly,  but  cherishing  many  hearts  with  his  own  warmth 
in  the  chillest  atmosphere  of  life.  What  other  fame  is 
worth  aspiring  for  ?  Or,  let  me  speak  it  more  boldly, 
what  other  long-enduring  fame  can  exist  ?  We  neither 
remember  nor  care  anything  for  the  past,  except  as  the 


310  UP   THE  THAMES. 

poet  has  made  it  intelligibly  noble  and  sublime  to  our 
comprehension.  The  shades  of  the  mighty  have  no  sub 
stance  ;  they  flit  ineffectually  about  the  darkened  stage 
where  they  performed  their  momentary  parts,  save  when 
the  poet  has  thrown  his  own  creative  soul  into  them,  and 
imparted  a  more  vivid  life  than  ever  they  were  able  to 
manifest  to  mankind  while  they  dwelt  in  the  body.  And 
therefore  —  though  he  cunningly  disguises  himself  in  their 
jirmor,  their  robes  of  state,  or  kingly  purple  —  it  is  not 
the  statesman, -the  warrior,  or  the  monarch  that  survives, 
but  the  despised  poet,  whom  they  may  have  fed  with 
their  crumbs,  and  to  whom  they  owe  all  that  they  now 
are  or  have,  —  a  name  ! 

In  the  foregoing  paragraph  I  seem  to  have  been  be 
trayed  into  a  flight  above  or  beyond  the  customary  level 
that  best  agrees  with  me  ;  but  it  represents  fairly  enough 
the  emotions  with  which  I  passed  from  Poets'  Comer  into 
the  chapels,  which  contain  the  sepulchres  of  kings  and 
great  people.  They  are  magnificent  even  now,  and  must 
have  been  inconceivably  so  when  the  marble  slabs  and 
pillars  wore  their  new  polish,  and  the  statues  retained 
the  brilliant  colors  with  which  they  were  originally 
painted,  and  the  shrines  their  rich  gilding,  of  which  the 
sunlight  still  shows  a  glimmer  or  a  streak,  though  the 
sunbeam  itself  looks  tarnished  with  antique  dust.  Yet 
this  recondite  portion  of  the  Abbey  presents  few  memo 
rials  of  personages  whom  we  care  to  remember.  The 
shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor  has  a  certain  interest, 
because  it  was  so  long  held  in  religious  reverence,  and 
because  the  very  dust  that  settled  upon  it  was  formerly 
worth  gold.  The  helmet  and  war-saddle  of  Henry  V., 
worn  at  Agincourt,  and  now  suspended  above  his  tomb, 


UP  THE  THAMES.  311 

are  memorable  objects,  but  more  for  Shakspeare's  sake 
than  the  victor's  own.  Rank  has  been  the  general  pass 
port  to  admission  here.  Noble  and  regal  dust  is  as  cheap 
as  dirt  under  the  pavement.  I  wn  glad  to  recollect, 
indeed,  (and  it  is  too  characteristic  of  the  right  English 
spirit  not  to  be  mentioned,)  one  or  tvro  gigantic  statues  of 
great  mechanicians,  who  contributed  largely  to  the  mate 
rial  welfare  of  England,  sitting  familiarly  in  their  marble 
chairs  among  forgotten  kings  and  queens.  Otherwise, 
the  quaintness  of  the  earlier  monuments,  and  the  antique 
beauty  of  some  of  them,  are  what  chiefly  gives  them 
value.  Nevertheless,  Addison  is  buried  among  the  men 
of  rank ;  not  on  the  plea  of  his  literary  fame,  however, 
but  because  he  was  connected  with  nobility  by  marriage, 
and  had  been  a  Secretary  of  State.  His  gravestone  is 
inscribed  with  a  resounding  verse  from  Tickell's  lines  to 
his  memory,  the  only  lines  by  which  Tickell  himself  is 
now  remembered,  and  which  (as  I  discovered  a  little 
while  ago)  he  mainly  filched  from  an  obscure  versifier  of 
somewhat  earlier  date. 

Returning  to  Poets'  Corner,  I  looked  again  at  the  walls, 
and  wondered  how  the  requisite  hospitality  can  be  shown 
to  poets  of  our  o^rn  and  the  succeeding  ages.  There 
is  hardly  a  foot  of  r-pace  left,  although  room  has  lately 
been  found  for  a  bust  of  Southey  ard  a  full-length  statue 
•>f  Campbell.  At  bert,  only  a  little  portion  of  the  Abbey 
is  dedicated  to  poets,  lUerary  men,  musical  composers 
and  others  of  the  gentle  artist  b^eed,  and  even  into  tJ^at 
small  nook  of  sanctity  men  of  other  pursuits  have  thought 
it  decent  to  intrude  themselves.  Metb.ink^  the  tuneful 
throng,  being  at  home  here,  should  reo^ltect  how  thev 
were  treated  in  their  lifetime,  and  turr*  tbe  cold  shoulder 


312  UP  THE  THAMES. 

looking  askance  at  nobles  and  official  personages,  however 
worthy  of  honorable  interment  elsewhere.  Yet  it  shows 
aptly  and  truly  enough  what  portion  of  the  world's  regard 
and  honor  has  heretofore  been  awarded  to  literary  emi 
nence  in  comparison  with  other  modes  of  greatness,  — 
this  dimly  lighted  corner  (nor  even  that  quietly  to  them 
selves)  in  the  vast  minster,  the  walls  of  which  are 
sheathed  and  hidden  under  marble  that  has  been  wasted 
upon  the  illustrious  obscure.  Nevertheless,  it  may  not 
be  worth  while  to  quarrel  with  the  world  on  this  account ; 
for,  to  confess  the  very  truth,  their  own  little  nook  con 
tains  more  than  one  poet  whose  memory  is  kept  alive  by 
his  monument,  instead  of  imbuing  the  senseless  stone 
with  a  spiritual  immortality,  —  men  of  whom  you  do  not 
ask,  "  Where  is  he  ?  "  but  "  Why  is  he  here  ?  "  I  esti 
mate  that  all  the  literary  people  who  really  make  an 
essential  part  of  one's  inner  life,  including  the  period 
since  English  literature  first  existed,  might  have  ample 
elbow-room  to  sit  down  and  quaff  their  draughts  of  Cas- 
taly  round  Chaucer's  broad,  horizontal  tombstone.  These 
divinest  poets  consecrate  the  spot,  and  throw  a  reflected 
glory  over  the  humblest  of  their  companions.  And  as 
for  the  latter,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  they  may  have  long 
outgrown  the  characteristic  jealousies  and  morbid  sensi 
bilities  of  their  craft,  and  have  found  out  the  little  value 
(probably  not  amounting  to  sixpence  in  immortal  cur 
rency)  of  the  posthumous  renown  which  they  once  as 
pired  to  win.  It  would  be  a  poor  compliment  to  a  dead 
poet  to  fancy  him  leaning  out  of  the  sky  and  snuffing  up 
the  impure  breath  of  earthly  praise. 

Yet  we  cannot  easily  rid  ourselves  of  the  notion  that 
those  who  have  bequeathed  us  the  inheritance  of  an  un- 


UP  THE  THAMES.  b.5 

dying  song  would  fain  be  conscious  of  its  endless  reverbe 
rations  in  the  hearts  of  mankind,  and  would  delight, 
among  sublimer  enjoyments,  to  see  their  names  emblaz 
oned  in  such  a  treasure-place  of  great  memories  as  West 
minster  Abbey.  There  are  some  men,  at  all  events,  — 
true  and  tender  poets,  moreover,  and  fully  deserving  of 
the  honor,  —  whose  spirits,  I  feel  certain,  would  linger  a 
little  while  about  Poets'  Corner  for  the  sake  of  witnessing 
their  own  apotheosis  among  their  kindred.  They  have 
had  a  strong  natural  yearning,  not  so  much  for  applause  as 
sympathy,  which  the  cold  fortune  of  their  lifetime  did 
but  scantily  supply ;  so  that  this  unsatisfied  appetite  may 
make  itself  felt  upon  sensibilities  at  once  so  delicate  and 
retentive,  even  a  step  or  two  beyond  the  grave.  Leigh 
Hunt,  for  example,  would  be  pleased,  even  now,  if  he 
could  learn  that  his  bust  had  been  reposited  in  the  midst 
of  the  old  poets  whom  he  admired  and  loved ;  though 
there  is  hardly  a  man  among  the  authors  of  to-day  and 
yesterday  whom  the  judgment  of  Englishmen  would  be 
less  likely  to  place  there.  He  deserves  it,  however,  if 
not  for  his  verse,  (the  value  of  which  I  do  not  estimate, 
never  having  been  able  to  read  it,)  yet  for  his  delightful 
prose,  his  unmeasured  poetry,  the  inscrutable  happiness 
of  his  touch,  working  soft  miracles  by  a  life-process  like 
the  growth  of  grass  and  flowers.  As  with  all  such  gentle 
writers,  his  page  sometimes  betrayed  a  vestige  of  affecta 
tion,  but,  the  next  moment,  a  rich,  natural  luxuriance 
overgrew  and  buried  it  out  of  sight.  I  knew  him  a  little, 
and  (since,  Heaven  be  praised,  few  English  celebrities 
whom  I  chanced  to  meet  have  enfranchised  my  pen  by 
their  decease,  and  as  I  assume  no  liberties  with  living 


814  UP  THE  THAMES- 

men)  I  will  conclude  this  rambling  article  by  sketching 
my  first  interview  with  Leigh  Hunt. 

He  was  then  at  Hammersmith,  occupying  a  very  plain 
and  shabby  little  house,  in  a  contiguous  range  of  others 
like  it,  with  no  prospect  but  that  of  an  ugly  village  street, 
and  certainly  nothing  to  gratify  his  craving  for  a  tasteful 
environment,  inside  or  out.  A  slatternly  maid-servant 
opened  the  door  for  us,  and  he  himself  stood  in  the  entry, 
a  beautiful  and  venerable  old  man,  buttoned  to  the  chin 
in  a  black  dress-coat,  tall  and  slender,  with  a  countenance 
quietly  alive  all  over,  and  the  gentlest  and  most  naturally 
courteous  manner.  He  ushered  us  into  his  little  study, 
or  parlor,  or  both,  —  a  very  forlorn  room,  with  poor  paper- 
hangings  and  carpet,  few  books,  no  pictures  that  I  remem 
ber,  and  an  awful  lack  of  upholstery.  I  touch  distinctly 
upon  these  external  blemishes  and  this  nudity  of  adorn 
ment,  not  that  they  would  be  worth  mentioning  in  a  sketch 
of  other  remarkable  persons,  but  because  Leigh  Hunt 
was  born  with  such  a  faculty  of  enjoying  all  beautiful 
things  that  it  seemed  as  if  Fortune  did  him  as  much 
wrong  in  not  supplying  them  as  in  withholding  a  suffi 
ciency  of  vital  breath  from  ordinary  men.  All  kinds  of 
mild  magnificence,  tempered  by  his  taste,  would  have 
become  him  well ;  but  he  had  not  the  grim  dignity  that 
assumes  nakedness  as  the  better  robe. 

I  have  said  that  he  was  a  beautiful  old  man.  In  truth, 
I  never  saw  a  finer  countenance,  either  as  to  the  mould 
of  features  or  the  expression,  nor  any  that  showed  the 
play  of  feeling  so  perfectly  without  the  slightest  theatrical 
emphasis.  It  was  like  a  child's  face  in  this  respect.  At 
my  first  glimpse  of  him,  when  he  met  us  in  the  entry,  I 
discerned  that  he  was  old,  his  long  hair  being  white  and 


UP  THE  THAMES.  315 

his  wrinkles  many  ;  it  was  an  aged  visage,  in  short,  such 
as  I  had  not  at  all  expected  to  see,  in  spite  of  dates,  be 
cause  his  books  talk  to  the  reader  with  the  tender  vivacity 
of  youth.  But  when  he  began  to  speak,  and  as  he  grew 
more  earnest  in  conversation,  I  ceased  to  be  sensible  of 
his  age ;  sometimes,  indeed,  its  dusky  shadow  darkened 
through  the  gleam  which  his  sprightly  thoughts  diffused 
about  his  face,  but  then  another  flash  of  youth  came  out 
of  his  eyes  and  made  an  illumination  again.  I  never 
witnessed  such  a  wonderfully  illusive  transformation,  be 
fore  or  since ;  and,  to  this  day,  trusting  only  to  my  recol 
lection,  I  should  find  it  difficult  to  decide  which  was  his 
genuine  and  stable  predicament,  —  youth  or  age.  I  have 
met  no  Englishman  whose  manners  seemed  to  me  so 
agreeable,  soft,  rather  than  polished,  wholly  unconven 
tional,  the  natural  growth  of  a  kindly  and  sensitive  dis 
position  without  any  reference  to  rule,  or  else  obedient  to 
some  rule  so  subtile  that  the  nicest  observer  could  not 
detect  the  application  of  it. 

His  eyes  were  dark  and  very  fine,  and  his  delightful 
voice  accompanied  their  visible  language  like  music.  He 
appeared  to  be  exceedingly  appreciative  of  whatever  was 
passing  among  those  who  surrounded  him,  and  especially 
of  the  vicissitudes  in  the  consciousness  of  the  person  to 
whom  he  happened  to  be  addressing  himself  at  the  mo 
ment.  I  felt  that  no  effect  upon  my  mind  of  what  ha 
uttered,  no  emotion,  however  transitory,  in  myself,  es 
caped  his  notice,  though  not  from  any  positive  vigilance 
on  his  part,  but  because  his  faculty  of  observation  was  so 
penetrative  and  delicate  ;  and  to  say  the  truth,  it  a  little 
confused  me  to  discern  always  a  ripple  on  his  mobile  face, 
responsive  to  any  slightest  breeze  that  passed  over  the 


316  UP   THE  THAMES. 

inner  reservoir  of  my  sentiments,  and  seemed  thence  tc 
extend  to  a  similar  reservoir  within  himself.  On  matters 
of  feeling,  and  within  a  certain  depth,  you  might  spare 
/ourself  the  trouble  of  utterance,  because  he  already 
knew  what  you  wanted  to  say,  and  perhaps  a  little  more 
than  you  would  have  spoken.  His  figure  was  full  of 
gentle  movement,  though,  somehow,  without  disturbing 
its  quietude  ;  and  as  he  talked,  he  kept  folding  his  hands 
nervously,  and  betokened  in  many  ways  a  fine  and  imme 
diate  sensibility,  quick  to  feel  pleasure  or  pain,  though 
scarcely  capable,  I  should  imagine,  of  a  passionate  expe 
rience  in  either  direction.  There  was  not  an  English 
trait  in  him  from  head  to  foot,  morally,  intellectually,  or 
physically.  Beef,  ale,  or  stout,  brandy,  or  port-wine,  en 
tered  not  at  all  into  his  composition.  In  his  earlier  life, 
he  appears  to  have  given  evidences  of  courage  and  sturdy 
principle,  and  of  a  tendency  to  fling  himself  into  the 
rough  struggle  of  humanity  on  the  liberal  side.  It  would 
be  taking  too  much  upon  myself  to  affirm  that  this  was 
merely  a  projection  of  his  fancy  world  into  the  actual, 
and  that  he  never  could  have  hit  a  downright  blow,  and 
was  altogether  an  unsuitable  person  to  receive  one.  I 
beheld  him  not  in  his  armor,  but  in  his  peacefulest  robes. 
Nevertheless,  drawing  my  conclusion  merely  from  what 
I  saw,  it  would  have  occurred  to  me  that  his  main  defi 
ciency  was  a  lack  of  grit.  Though  anything  but  a  timid 
man,  the  combative  and  defensive  elements  were  not  prom 
inently  developed  in  his  character,  and  could  have  been 
made  available  only  when  he  put  an  unnatural  force  upon 
his  instincts.  It  was  on  this  account,  and  also  because 
of  the  fineness  of  his  nature  generally,  that  the  English 
appreciated  him  no  better  and  left  this  sweet  fmd  deli- 


UP  THE  THAMES.  317 

cate  poet  poor,  and  with  scanty  laurels  in  his  declining 
sige. 

It  was  not,  I  think,  from  his  American  blood  that  Leigh 
Hunt  derived  either  his  amiability  or  his  peaceful  incli 
nations  ;  at  least,  I  do  not  see  how  we  can  reasonably 
claim  the  former  quality  as  a  national  characteristic, 
though  the  latter  might  have  been  fairly  inherited  from 
his  ancestors  on  the  mother's  side,  who  were  Pennsylvania 
Quakers.  But  the  kind  of  excellence  that  distinguished 
him  —  his  fineness,  subtilty,  and  grace  —  was  that  which 
the  richest  cultivation  has  heretofore  tended  to  develop  in 
the  happier  examples  of  American  genius,  and  which 
(though  I  say  it  a  little  reluctantly)  is  perhaps  what  our 
future  intellectual  advancement  may  make  general 
among  us.  His  person,  at  all  events,  was  thoroughly 
American,  and  of  the  best  type,  as  were  likewise  his  man 
ners  ;  for  we  are  the  best  as  well  as  the  worst  mannered 
people  in  the  world. 

Leigh  Hunt  loved  dearly  to  be  praised.  That  is  to 
say,  he  desired  sympathy  as  a  flower  seeks  sunshine,  and 
perhaps  profited  by  it  as  much  in  the  richer  depth  of 
coloring  that  it  imparted  to  his  ideas.  In  response  to  all 
that  we  ventured  to  express  about  his  writings,  (and,  fo? 
my  part,  I  went  quite  to  the  extent  of  my  conscience, 
which  was  a  long  way,  and  there  left  the  matter  to  a  lady 
and  a  young  girl,  who  happily  were  with  me,)  his  face 
ehone,  and  he  manifested  great  delight,  with  a  perfect, 
and  yet  delicate,  frankness  for  which  I  loved  him.  He 
could  not  tell  us,  he  said,  the  happiness  that  such  appre 
ciation  gave  him ;  it  always  took  him  by  surprise,  he  re 
marked,  for  —  perhaps  because  he  cleaned  his  own  boots, 
and  performed  other  little  ordinary  offices  for  himself  — 


818  UP  THE  THAMES. 

he  never  had  been  conscious  of  anything  wonderful  in  hia 
own  person.  And  then  he  smiled,  making  himself  and 
all  the  poor  little  parlor  about  him  beautiful  thereby.  It 
is  usually  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  praise  a  raan 
to  his  face ;  but  Leigh  Hunt  received  the  incense  with 
such  gracious  satisfaction,  (feeling  it  to  be  sympathy,  not 
vulgar  praise,)  that  the  only  difficulty  was  to  keep  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  moment  within  the  limit  of  permanent 
opinion.  A  storm  had  suddenly  come  up  while  we  were 
talking ;  the  rain  poured,  the  lightning  flashed,  and  the 
thunder  broke ;  but  I  hope,  and  have  great  pleasure  in 
believing,  that  it  was  a  sunny  hour  for  Leigh  Hunt. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  not  to  my  voice  that  he  most  favora 
bly  inclined  his  ear,  but  to  those  of  my  companions. 
Women  are  the  fit  ministers  at  such  a  shrine. 

He  must  have  suffered  keenly  in  his  lifetime,  and 
enjoyed  keenly,  keeping  his  emotions  so  much  upon  the 
surface  as  he  seemed  to  do,  and  convenient  for  everybody 
to  play  upon.  Being  of  a  cheerful  temperament,  happiness 
had  probably  the  upperhand.  His  was  a  light,  mildly 
joyous  nature,  gentle,  graceful,  yet  seldom  attaining  to 
that  deepest  grace  which  results  from  power  ;  for  beauty, 
like  woman,  its  human  representative,  dallies  with  the 
gentle,  but  yields  its  consummate  favor  only  to  the  strong. 
I  imagine  that  Leigh  Hunt  may  have  been  more  beautiful 
when  I  met  him,  both  in  person  and  character,  than  in  hi? 
earlier  days.  As  a  young  man,  I  could  conceive  of  his 
being  finical  in  certain  moods,  but  not  now,  when  the 
gravity  of  age  shed  a  venerable  grace  about  him.  I  re 
joiced  to  hear  him  say  that  he  was  favored  with  most 
confident  and  cheering  anticipations  in  respect  to  a  future 
life  ;  and  there  were  abundant  proofs,  throughout  our  in- 


UP  THE  THAMES.  319 

tcrview,  of  an  unrepining  spirit,  resignation,  quiet  relin- 
quishment  of  the  worldly  benefits  that  were  denied  him, 
thankful  enjoyment  of  whatever  he  had  to  enjoy,  and 
piety,  and  hope  shining  onward  into  the  dusk,  —  all  of 
which  gave  a  reverential  cast  to  the  feeling  with  which 
we  parted  from  him.  I  wish  that  he  could  have  had  one 
full  draught  of  prosperity  before  he  died.  As  a  matter 
of  artistic  propriety,  it  would  have  been  delightful  to  see 
him  inhabiting  a  beautiful  house  of  his  own,  in  an  Italian 
climate,  with  all  sorts  of  elaborate  upholstery  and  minute 
elegances  about  him,  and  a  succession  of '  tender  and 
lovely  women  to  praise  his  sweet  poetry  from  morning  to 
night.  I  hardly  know  whether  it  is  my  fault,  or  the  effect 
of  a  weakness  in  Leigh  Hunt's  character,  that  I  should 
be  sensible  of  a  regret  of  this  nature,  when,  at  the  same 
time,  I  sincerely  believe  that  he  has  found  an  infinity  of 
better  things  in  the  world  whither  he  has  gone. 

At  our  leave-taking,  he  grasped  me  warmly  by  both 
hands,  and  seemed  as  much  interested  in  our  whole  party 
as  if  he  had  known  us  for  years.  All  this  was  genuine 
feeling,  a  quick,  luxuriant  growth  out  of  his  heart,  which 
was  a  soil  for  flower-seeds  of  rich  and  rare  varieties,  not 
acorns,  but  a  true  heart,  nevertheless.  Several  years 
afterwards  I  met  him  for  the  last  time  at  a  London  din 
ner-party,  looking  sadly  broken  down  by  infirmities ;  and 
my  final  recollection  of  the  beautiful  old  man  presents 
him  arm  in  arm  with,  nay,  if  I  mistake  not,  partly  em 
braced  and  supported  by,  another  beloved  and  honored 
poet,  whose  minstrel-name,  since  he  has  a  week  day  one 
for  his  personal  occasions,  I  will  venture  to  speak.  •  It  was 
Harry  Cornwall,  whose  kind  introduction  had  first  made 
me  known  to  Leigh  Hunt. 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH 
POVERTY. 

BECOMING  an  inhabitant  of  a  great  English  tcwr.  I 
often  turned  aside  from  the  prosperous  thoroughfares, 
(where  the  edifices,  the  shops,  and  the  bustling  crowd 
differed  not  so  much  from  scenes  with  which  I  was  fam- 
*liar  in  my  own  country,)  and  went  designedly  astray 
among  precincts  that  reminded  me  of  some  of  Dickens's 
grimiest  pages.  There  I  caught  glimpses  of  a  people  and 
a  mode  of  life  that  were  comparatively  new  to  my  obser 
vation,  a  sort  of  sombre  phantasmagoric  spectacle,  exceed 
ingly  undelightful  to  behold,  yet  involving  a  singular 
interest  and  even  fascination  in  its  ugliness. 

Dirt,  one  would  fancy,  is  plenty  enough  all  over  the 
world,  being  the  symbolic  accompaniment  of  the  foul 
incrustation  which  began  to  settle  over  and  bedim  all 
earthly  things  as  soon  as  Eve  had  bitten  the  apple  ;  ever 
since  which  hapless  epoch,  her  daughters  have  chiefly 
been  engaged  in  a  desperate  and  unavailing  struggle  to 
get  rid  of  it.  But  the  dirt  of  a  poverty-stricken  English 
street  is  a  monstrosity  unknown  on  our  side  of  the  Atlan 
tic.  It  reigns  supreme  within  its  own  limits,  and  is  incon 
ceivable  everywhere  beyond  them.  We  enjoy  the  great 
advantage,  that  the  brightness  and  dryness  of  our  atmos 
phere  keep  everything  clean  that  the  suu  shines  upon, 
converting  the  larger  portion  of  our  impurities  into  tran- 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.     321 

sitory  dust  which  the  next  wind  can  sweep  away,  in  con 
trast  with  the  damp,  adhesive  grime  that  incorporates 
itseH  with  all  surfaces  (unless  continually  and  painfully 
cleansed)  in  the  chill  moisture  of  the  English  air.  Then 
the  all-pervading  smoke  of  the  city,  abundantly  inter 
mingled  with  the  sable  snow-flakes  of  bituminous  coal, 
hovering  overhead,  descending,  and  alighting  on  pave 
ments  and  rich  architectural  fronts,  on  the  snowy  muslin 
of  the  ladies,  and  the  gentlemen's  starched  collars  and 
shirt-bosoms,  invests  even  the  better  streets  in  a  half- 
mourning  garb.  It  is  beyond  the  resources  of  Wealth  to 
keep  the  smut  away  from  its  premises  or  its  own  fingers' 
ends  ;  and  as  for  Poverty,  it  surrenders  itself  to  the  dark 
influence  without  a  struggle.  Along  with  disastrous  cir 
cumstances,  pinching  need,  adversity  so  lengthened  out  as 
to  constitute  the  rule  of  life,  there  comes  a  certain  chill 
depression  of  the  spirits  which  seems  especially  to  shudder 
at  cold  water.  In  view  of  so  wretched  a  state  of  things, 
we  accept  the  ancient  Deluge  not  merely  as  an  insulated 
phenomenon,  but  as  a  periodical  necessity,  and  acknowl 
edge  that  nothing  less  than  such  a  general  washing-day 
could  suffice  to  cleanse  the  slovenly  old  world  of  its  moral 
and  material  dirt. 

Gin-shops,  or  what  the  English  call  spirit-vaults,  are 
numerous  in  the  vicinity  of  these  poor  streets,  and  are  set 
off  with  the  magnificence  of  gilded  door-posts,  tarnished 
by  contact  with  the  unclean  customers  who  haunt  there. 
Kagged  children  come  thither  with  old  shaving-mugs,  or 
broken-nosed  teapots,  or  any  such  make-shift  receptacle, 
to  get  a  little  poison  or  madness  for  their  parents,  who 
deserve  no  better  requital  at  their  hands  for  having  engen 
dered  them.  Inconceivably  sluttish  women  enter  at  nooi) 

21 


322      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY. 

day  and  stand  at  the  counter  among  boon-companion?  bl 
both  sexes,  stirring  up  misery  and  jollity  in  a  bumper 
together,  and  quaffing  off  the  mixture  with  a  relish.  As 
for  the  men,  they  lounge  there  continually,  drinking  till 
they  are  drunken,  —  drinking  as  long  as  they  have  a  half 
penny  left,  and  then,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  waiting  for  a 
sixpenny  miracle  to  be  wrought  in  their  pockets,  so  as  to 
enable  them  to  be  drunken  again.  Most  of  these  estab 
lishments  have  a  significant  advertisement  of  "  Beds," 
doubtless  for  the  accommodation  of  their  customers  in  the 
interval  between  one  intoxication  and  the  next.  I  never 
could  find  it  in  my  heart,  however,  utterly  to  condemn 
these  sad  revellers,  and  should  certainly  wait  till  I  had 
some  better  consolation  to  offer  before  depriving  them  of 
their  dram  of  gin,  though  death  itself  were  in  the  glass ; 
for  methought  their  poor  souls  needed  such  fiery  stimu 
lant  to  lift  them  a  little  way  out  of  the  smothering  squalor 
of  both  their  outward  and  interior  life,  giving  them 
glimpses  and  suggestions,  even  if  bewildering  ones,  of 
a  spiritual  existence  that  limited  their  present  misery. 
The  temperance-reformers  unquestionably  derive  their 
commission  from  the  Divine  Beneficence,  but  have  never 
been  taken  fully  into  its  counsels.  All  may  not  be  lost, 
though  those  good  men  fail. 

Pawn-brokers'  establishments,  distinguished  by  th 
mystic  symbol  of  the  three  golden  balls,  were  conven 
/ently  accessible  ;  though  what  personal  property  these 
wretched  people  could  possess,  capable  of  being  estimated 
in  silver  or  copper,  so  as  to  afford  a  basis  for  a  loan,  was 
a  problem  that  still  perplexes  me.  Old  clothesmen,  like 
wise,  dwelt  hard  by,  and  hang  out  ancient  garments  to 
dangle  in  the  wind,  rhtie  were  butchers'  shops,  too,  of 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.     323 

a  class  adapted  to  the  neighborhood,  presenting  no  such 
generously  fattened  carcasses  as  Englishmen  love  to  gaze 
at  in  the  market,  no  stupendous  halves  of  mighty  beeves, 
no  dead  hogs  or  muttons  ornamented  with  carved  bas- 
reliefs  of  fat  on  their  ribs  and  shoulders,  in  a  peculiarly 
British  style  of  art,  —  not  these,  but  bits  and  gobbets  of 
lean  meat,  selvages  snipt  off  from  steaks,  tough  and  stringy 
morsels,  bare  bones  smitten  away  from  joints  by  tho 
cleaver,  tripe,  liver,  bullocks'  feet,  or  whatever  else  was 
cheapest  and  divisible  into  the  smallest  lots.  I  am  afraid 
that  even  such  delicacies  came  to  many  of  their  tables 
hardly  oflener  than  Christmas.  In  the  windows  of  other 
little  shops  you  saw  half  a  dozen  wizened  herrings,  some 
eggs  in  a  basket,  looking  so  dingily  antique  that  your 
imagination  smelt  them,  fly-speckled  biscuits,  segments 
of  a  hungry  cheese,  pipes  and  papers  of  tobacco.  Now 
and  then  a  sturdy  milk-woman  passed  by  with  a  wooden 
yoke  over  her  shoulders,  supporting  a  pail  on  either  side, 
filled  with  a  whitish  fluid,  the  composition  of  which  was 
water  and  chalk  and  the  milk  of  a  sickly  cow,  who  gave 
the  best  she  had,  poor  thing  !  but  could  scarcely  make  it 
rich  or  wholesome,  spending  her  life  in  some  close  city- 
nook  and  pasturing  on  strange  food.  I  have  seen,  once 
or  twice,  a  donkey  coming  into  one  of  these  streets  with 
panniers  full  of  vegetables,  and  departing  with  a  return 
cargo  of  what  looked  like-  rubbish  and  street-sweepings. 
No  other  commerce  seemed  to  exist,  except,  possibly,  a 
girl  might  offer  you  a  pair  of  stockings  or  a  worked  collar, 
or  a  man  whisper  something  mysterious  about  wonder 
fully  cheap  cigars.  And  yet  I  remember  seeing  female 
hucksters  in  those  regions,  with  their  wares  on  the  edge 
of  the  sidewalk  and  their  own  seat«  right  in  the  carriage- 


S24     OUTSIDE   GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH   POVERTY. 

way,  pretending  to  sell  half-decayed  oranges  and  apples, 
toffy,  Ormskirk  cakes,  combs  and  cheap  jewelry,  the 
coarsest  kind  of  crockery,  and  little  plates  of  oysters,  — 
knitting  patiently  all  day  long,  and  removing  their  un- 
diminished  stock  in  trade  at  nightfall.  All  indispensable 
importations  from  other  quarters  of  the  town  were  on  a 
remarkably  diminutive  scale  :  for  example,  the  wealthier 
inhabitants  purchased  their  coal  by  the  wheelbarrow-load, 
and  the  poorer  ones  by  the  peck-measure.  It  was  a 
curious  and  melancholy  spectacle,  when  an  overladen  coal- 
cart  happened  to  pass  through  the  street  and  drop  a 
handful  or  two  of  its  burden  in  the  mud,  to  see  half  a 
dozen  women  and  children  scrambling  for  the  treasure- 
trove,  like  a  flock  of  hens  and  chickens  gobbling  up  some 
spilt  corn.  In  this  connection  I  may  as  well  mention  a 
commodity  of  boiled  snails  (for  such  they  appeared  to 
me,  though  probably  a  marine  production)  which  used  to 
be  peddled  from  door  to  door,  piping  hot,  as  an  article  of 
cheap  nutriment. 

The  population  of  these  dismal  abodes  appeared  to 
consider  the  sidewalks  and  middle  of  the  street  as  theii 
common  hall.  In  a  drama  of  low  life,  the  unity  of  place 
might  be  arranged  rigidly  according  to  the  classic  rule, 
and  the  street  be  the  one  locality  in  which  every  scene 
and  incident  should  occur.  Courtship,  quarrels,  plot  and 
counterplot,  conspiracies  for  robbery  and  murder,  family 
difficulties  or  agreements,  —  all  such  matters,  I  doubt  not 
are  constantly  discussed  or  transacted  in  this  sky-roofed 
saloon,  so  regally  hung  with  its  sombre  canopy  of  coal- 
smoke.  Whatever  the  disadvantages  of  the  English 
climate,  the  only  comfortable  or  wholesome  part  of  life, 
for  the  city  poor,  must  be  spent  in  the  open  air.  Tha 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH   POVERTY.      325 

stifled  and  squalid  rooms  where  they  lie  down  at  night, 
whole  families  and  neighborhoods  together,  or  sulkily 
elbow  one  another  in  the  daytime,  when  a  settled  rain 
drives  them  within  doors,  are  worse  horrors  than  it  is 
worth  while  (without  a  practical  object  in  view)  to  admit 
'into  one's  imagination.  No  wonder  that  they  creep  forth 
from  the  foul  mystery  of  their  interiors,  stumble  down 
from  their  garrets,  or  scramble  up  out  of  their  cellars,  on 
the  upper  step  of  which  you  may  see  the  grimy  house 
wife,  before  the  shower  is  ended,  letting  the  raindrops 
gutter  down  her  visage ;  while  her  children  (an  impish 
progeny  of  cavernous  recesses  below  the  common  sphere 
of  humanity)  swarm  into  the  daylight  and  attain  all  that 
they  know  of  personal  purification  in  the  nearest  mud- 
puddle.  It  might  almost  make  a  man  doubt  the  existence 
of  his  own  soul,  to  observe  how  Nature  has  flung  these 
little  wretches  into  the  street  and  left  them  there,  so 
evidently  regarding  them  as  nothing  worth,  and  how  all 
mankind  acquiesce  in  the  great  mother's  estimate  of  her 
offspring.  For,  if  they  are  to  have  no  immortality,  what 
superior  claim  can  I  assert  for  mine  ?  And  how  difficult 
to  believe  that  anything  so  precious  as  a  germ  of  immor 
tal  growth  can  have  been  buried  under  this  dirt-heap, 
plunged  into  this  cesspool  of  misery  and  vice !  As  often 
as  I  beheld  the  scene,  it  affected  me  with  surprise  and 
loathsome  interest,  much  resembling,  though  in  a  far 
intenser  degree,  the  feeling  with  which,  when  a  boy,  I 
used  to  turn  over  a  plank  or  an  old  log  that  had  long  lain 
on  the  damp  ground,  and  found  a  vivacious  multitude  of 
unclean  and  devilish-looking  insects  scampering  to  and 
fro  beneath  it.  Without  an  infinite  faith,  there  seemed 
as  much  prospect  of  a  blessed  futurity  for  those  hideoua 


320      OUTSIDE   GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH   POVERTY. 

bugs  and  many-footed  worms  as  for  these  brethren  of  our 
humanity  and  co-heirs  of  all  our  heavenly  inheritance. 
Ah,  what  a  mystery !  Slowly,  slowly,  as  after  groping 
at  the  bottom  of  a  deep,  noisome,  stagnant  pool,  my  hope 
struggles  upward  to  the  surface,  bearing  the  half-drowned 
body  of  a  child  along  with  it,  and  heaving  it  aloft  for  its 
life,  and  my  own  life,  and  all  our  lives.  Unless  these 
glime-clogged  nostrils  can  be  made  capable  of  inhaling 
celestial  air,  I  know  not  how  the  purest  and  most  intel 
lectual  of  us  can  reasonably  expect  ever  to  taste  a  breath 
of  it.  The  whole  question  of  eternity  is  staked  there. 
If  a  single  one  of  those  helpless  little  ones  be  lost,  the 
world  is  lost ! 

The  women  and  children  greatly  preponderate  in  such 
places ;  the  men  probably  wandering  abroad  in  quest  of 
that  daily  miracle,  a  dinner  and  a  drink,  or  perhaps  slum 
bering  in  the  daylight  that  they  may  the  better  follow  out 
their  cat-like  rambles  through  the  dark.  Here  are  women 
with  young  figures,  but  old,  wrinkled,  yellow  faces,  tanned 
and  blear-eyed  with  the  smoke  which  they  cannot  spare 
from  their  scanty  fires,  —  it  being  too  precious  for  its 
warmth  to  be  swallowed  by  the  chimney.  Some  of  them 
sit  on  the  door-steps,  nursing  their  unwashed  babies  at 
bosoms  which  we  will  glance  aside  from,  for  the  sake  of 
our  mothers  and  all  womanhood,  because  the  fairest  spec 
tacle  is  here  the  foulest.  Yet  motherhood,  in  these  dark 
abodes,  is  strangely  identical  with  what  we  have  all 
known  it  to  be  in  the  happiest  homes.  Nothing,  as  I  re 
member,  smote  me  with  more  grief  and  pity  (all  the  more 
poignant  because  perplexingly  entangled  with  an  inclina 
tion  to  smile)  than  to  hear  a  gaunt  and  ragged  mother 
priding  herself  on  the  pretty  ways  of  her  ragged  and 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.      327 

skinny  infant,  just  as  a  young  matron  might,  when  she 
invites  her  lady  friends  to  admire  her  plump,  white-robed 
darling  in  the  nursery.  Indeed,  no  womanly  character 
istic  seemed  to  have  altogether  perished  out  of  these  poor 
souls.  It  was  the  very  same  creature  whose  tender  tor 
ments  make  the  rapture  of  our  young  days,  whom  we 
love,  cherish,  and  protect,  and  rely  upon  in  life  and  death, 
and  whom  we  delight  to  see  beautify  her  beauty  with  rich 
robes  and  set  it  off  with  jewels,  though  now  fantastically 
masquerading  in  a  garb  of  tatters,  wholly  unfit  for  her  to 
handle.  I  recognized  her,  over  and  over  again,  in  the 
groups  round  a  door-step  or  in  the  descent  of  a  cellar, 
chatting  with  prodigious  earnestness  about  intangible 
trifles,  laughing  for  a  little  jest,  sympathizing  at  almost 
the  same  instant  with  one  neighbor's  sunshine  and  an 
other's  shadow,  wise,  simple,  sly,  and  patient,  yet  easily 
perturbed,  and  breaking  into  small  feminine  ebullitions 
of  spite,  wrath,  and  jealousy,  tornadoes  of  a  moment, 
such  as  vary  the  social  atmosphere  of  her  silken-skirted 
sisters,  though  smothered  into  propriety  by  dint  of  a  well- 
bred  habit.  Not  that  there  was  an  absolute  deficiency  of 
good  breeding,  even  here.  It  often  surprised  me  to  wit 
ness  a  courtesy  and  deference  among  these  ragged  folks, 
which,  having  seen  it,  I  did  not  thoroughly  believe  in, 
wondering  whence  it  should  have  come.  I  am  persuaded, 
however,  that  there  were  laws  of  intercourse  which  they 
never  violated,  —  a  code  of  the  cellar,  the  garret,  the 
common  staircase,  the  door-step,  and  the  pavement,  which 
perhaps  had  as  deep  a  foundation  in  natural  fitness  as  the 
code  of  the  drawing-room. 

Yet  again  I  doubt  whether  I  may  not  have  been  utter 
ing  folly  in  the  last  two  sentences,  when  I  reflect  how 


328      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY. 

rude  and  rough  these  specimens  of  feminine   character 
generally  were.     They  had  a  readiness  with  their  hands 
that  reminded  me  of  Molly  Seagrim  and  other  heroines* 
in  Fielding's  novels.    For  example,  I  have  seen  a  woman 
meet  a  man  in  the  street,  and,  for  no  reason  perceptible 
to  me,  suddenly  clutch  him  by  the  hair  and  cuff  his  ears, 
—  an  infliction  which  he  bore  with  exemplary  patience, 
only  snatching  the  very  earliest  opportunity  to  take  to  his 
heels.    Where  a  sharp  tongue  will  not  serve  the  purpose 
they  trust  to  the  sharpness  of  their  finger-nails,  or  incar 
nate  a  whole  vocabulary  of  vituperative  words  in  a  re 
sounding  slap,  or  the  downright  blow  of  a  doubled  fist. 
All  English  people,  I  imagine,  are  influenced  in  a  fai 
greater  degree  than  ourselves  by  this  simple  and  honest 
tendency,  in  cases  of  disagreement,  to  batter  one  another's 
persons  ;  and  whoever  has  seen  a  crowd  of  English  ladiey 
(for  instance,  at  the  door  of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  in  Holy 
Week)  will  be  satisfied  that  their  belligerent  propensities 
are  kept  in  abeyance  only  by  a  merciless  rigor  on  thu 
part  of  society.     It  requires  a  vast  deal  of  refinement  to 
spiritualize  their  large  physical  endowments.     Such  being 
the  case  with  the   delicate  ornaments  of  the  drawing- 
room,  it  is  the  less  to  be  wondered  at  that  women  who 
live  mostly  in  the  open  air,  amid  the  coarsest  kind  of 
companionship  and  occupation,  should  carry  on  the  inter 
course  of  life  with  a  freedom  unknown  to  any  class  of 
American  females,  though  still,  I  am  resolved  to  think, 
compatible  with  a  generous  breadth  of  natural  propriety. 
It  shocked  me,  at  first,  to  see  them  (of  all  ages,  even 
elderly,  as  well  as  infants  that  could  just  toddle  across  the 
street  alone)  going  about  in  the  mud  and  mire,  or  through 
the  dusky  snow  and  slosh  of  a  severe  week  in  winter, 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.      329 

with  petticoats  high  uplifted  above  bare,  red  feet  and 
legs  ;  but  I  was  comforted  by  observing  that  both  shoes 
and  stockings  generally  reappeared  with  better  weather, 
having  been  thriftily  kept  out  of  the  damp  for  the  con 
venience  of  dry  feet  within  doors.  Their  hardihood  was 
wonderful,  and  their  strength  greater  than  could  ha\e 
been  expected  from  such  spare  diet  as  they  probably  lived 
upon.  I  have  seen  them  carrying  on  their  heads  gicat 
burdens  under  which  they  walked  as  freely  as  if  they 
were  fashionable  bonnets  ;  or  sometimes  the  burden  was 
huge  enough  almost  to  cover  the  whole  person,  looked  at 
from  behind,  —  as  in  Tuscan  villages  you  may  see  the 
girls  coming  in  from  the  country  with  great  bundles  of 
green  twigs  upon  their  backs,  so  that  they  resemble  loco 
motive  masses  of  verdure  and  fragrance.  But  these  poor 
English  women  seemed  to  be  laden  with  rubbish,  incon 
gruous  and  indescribable,  such  as  bones  and  rags,  the 
sweepings  of  the  house  and  of  the  street,  a  merchandise 
gathered  up  from  what  poverty  itself  had  thrown  away, 
a  heap  of  filthy  stuff  analogous  to  Christian's  bundle  of 
gin. 

Sometimes,  though  very  seldom,  I  detected  a  certain 
gracefulness  among  the  younger  women  that  was  alto 
gether  new  to  my  observation.  It  was  a  charm  proper 
to  the  lowest  class.  One  girl  I  particularly  remember,  in 
a  garb  none  of  the  cleanest  and  nowise  smart,  and  her 
self  exceedingly  coarse  in  all  respects,  but  yet  endowed 
with  a  sort  of  witchery,  a  native  charm,  a  robe  of  simple 
beauty  and  suitable  behavior  that  she  was  born  in  and 
had  never  been  tempted  to  throw  off,  because  she  had 
really  nothing  else  to  put  on.  Eve  herself  could  not 
have  been  more  natural.  Nothing  was  affected,  nothing 


330      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH   POVERTY. 

imitative  ;  no  proper  grace  was  vulgarized  by  tin  effort 
to  assume  the  manners  or  adornments  of  another  sphere 
This  kind  of  beauty,  arrayed  in  a  fitness  of  its  own,  is 
probably  vanishing  out  of  the  world,  and  will  certainly 
never  be  found  in  America,  where  all  the  girls,  whether 
daughters  of  the  upper-tendom,  the  mediocrity,  the  cot 
tage,  or  the  kennel,  aim  at  one  standard  of  dress  and 
deportment,  seldom  accomplishing  a  perfectly  triumphant 
hit  or  an  utterly  absurd  failure.  Those  words,  "  genteel  * 
and  "  ladylike,"  are  terrible  ones  and  do  us  infinite  mis 
chief,  but  it  is  because  (at  least,  I  hope  so)  we  are  in  a 
transition  state,  and  shall  emerge  into  a  higher  mode  of 
simplicity  than  has  ever  been  known  to  past  ages. 

In  such  disastrous  circumstances  as  I  have  been  at 
tempting  to  describe,  it  was  beautiful  to  observe  what  a 
mysterious  efficacy  still  asserted  itself  in  character.  A 
woman,  evidently  poor  as  the  poorest  of  her  neighbors, 
would  be  knitting  or  sewing  on  the  door-step,  just  as  fifty 
other  women  were  ;  but  round  about  her  skirts  (though 
wofully  patched)  you  would  be  sensible  of  a  certain  sphere 
of  decency,  which,  it  seemed  to  me,  could  not  have  been 
kept  more  impregnable  in  the  cosiest  little  sitting-room, 
where  the  tea-kettle  on  the  hob  was  humming  its  good 
old  song  of  domestic  peace.  Maidenhood  had  a  similar 
power.  The  evil  habit  that  grows  upon  us  in  this  harsh 
world  makes  me  faithless  to  my  own  better  perceptions 
and  yet  I  have  seen  girls  in  these  wretched  streets,  on 
whose  virgin  purity,  judging  merely  from  their  impression 
on  my  instincts  as  they  passed  by,  I  should  have  deemed 
it  safe,  at  the  moment,  to  stake  my  life.  The  next  mo 
ment,  however,  as  the  surrounding  flood  of  moral  unclean- 
ness  surged  over  their  footsteps,  I  would  not  have  staked  a 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH   POVERTY.      331 

ipike  of  thistle-down  on  the  same  wager.  Yet  the  miracle 
was  within  the  scope  of  Providence,  which  is  equally  wise 
and  equally  beneficent,  (even  to  those  poor  girls,  though  I 
acknowledge  the  fact  without  the  remotest  comprehension 
of  the  mode  of  it,)  whether  they  were  pure  or  what  we 
fellow-sinners  call  vile.  Unless  your  faith  be  deep-rooted 
and  of  most  vigorous  growth,  it  is  the  safer  way  not  tc 
turn  aside  into  this  region  so  suggestive  of  miserable 
doubt.  It  was  a  place  "  with  dreadful  faces  thronged," 
wrinkled  and  grim  with  vice  and  wretchedness  ;  and, 
thinking  over  the  line  of  Milton  here  quoted,  I  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  those  ugly  lineaments  which  startled 
Adam  and  Eve,  as  they  looked  backward  to  the  closed 
gate  of  Paradise,  were  no  fiends  from  the  pit,  but  the 
more  terrible  foreshadowings  of  what  so  many  of  their 
descendants  were  to  be.  God  help  them,  and  us  likewise, 
their  brethren  and  sisters  !  Let  me  add,  that,  forlorn, 
ragged,  care-worn,  hopeless,  dirty,  haggard,  hungry,  as 
they  were,  the  most  pitiful  thing  of  all  was  to  see  the 
sort  of  patience  with  which  they  accepted  their  lot,  as  if 
they  had  been  born  into  the  world  for  that  and  nothing 
else.  Even  the  little  children  had  this  characteristic  in 
as  perfect  development  as  their  grandmothers. 

The  children,  in  truth,  were  the  ill-omened  blossoms 
from  which  another  harvest  of  precisely  such  dark  fruitage 
as  I  saw  ripened  around  me  was  to  be  produced.  Of  course 
you  would  imagine  these  to  be  lumps  of  crude  iniquity 
tiny  vessels  as  full  as  they  could  hold  of  naughtiness ; 
nor  can  I  say  a  great  deal  to  the  contrary.  Small  proof 
of  parental  discipline  could  I  discern,  save  when  a  mother 
(drunken,  I  sincerely  hope)  snatched  her  own  imp  out  of 
a  group  of  pale,  half-naked,  humor-eaten  abortions  that 


332      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY. 

were  playing  and  squabbling  together  in  the  mud,  turned 
up  its  tatters,  brought  down  her  heavy  hand  on  its  poo 
little  tenderest  part,  and  let  it  go  again  with  a  shake.  If 
the  child  knew  what  the  punishment  was  for,  it  was  wis^r 
than  1  pretend  to  be.  It  yelled,  and  went  back  to  its 
playmates  in  the  mud.  Yet  let  me  bear  testimony  to 
what  was  beautiful,  and  more  touching  than  anything  that 
I  ever  witnessed  in  the  intercourse  of  happier  children.  I 
allude  to  the  superintendence  which  some  of  these  small 
people  (too  small,  one  would  think,  to  be  sent  into  the  street 
alone,  had  there  been  any  other  nursury  for  them)  exer 
cised  over  still  smaller  ones.  Whence  they  derived  such 
a  sense  of  duty,  unless  immediately  from  God,  I  cannot 
tell ;  but  it  was  wronderful  to  observe  the  expression  of 
responsibility  in  their  deportment,  the  anxious  fidelity 
with  which  they  discharged  their  unfit  office,  the  tender 
patience  with  which  they  linked  their  less  pliable  impulses 
to  the  wayward  footsteps  of  an  infant,  and  let  it  guide 
them  whithersoever  it  liked.  In  the  hollow-cheeked, 
large-eyed  girl  of  ten,  whom  I  saw  giving  a  cheerless 
oversight  to  her  baby-brother,  I  did  not  so  much  marvel 
at  it.  She  had  merely  come  a  little  earlier  than  usual  to 
the  perception  of  what  was  to  be  her  business  in  life. 
But  I  admired  the  sickly-looking  little  boy,  who  did  vio 
lence  to  his  boyish  nature  by  making  himself  the  servant 
}f  his  little  sister,  —  she  too  small  to  walk,  and  he  too 
small  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  —  and  therefore  working  a 
kind  of  miracle  to  transport  her  from  one  dirt-heap  to  an 
other.  Beholding  such  works  of  love  and  duty,  I  Cook 
heart  again,  and  deemed  it  not  so  impossible,  after  all,  for 
these  neglected  children  to  find  a  path  through  the  squalor 
and  e^  il  of  their  circumstances  up  to  the  gate  of  heaven. 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.     333 

Perhaps  there  was  this  latent  good  in  all  of  them,  though 
generally  they  looked  brutish,  and  dull  even  in  their 
sports ;  there  was  little  mirth  among  them,  nor  even  a 
fully  awakened  spirit  of  blackguardism.  Yet  sometimes, 
again,  I  saw,  with  surprise  and  a  sense  as  if  I  had  been 
asleep  and  dreaming,  the  bright,  intelligent,  merry  face 
of  a  child  whose  dark  eyes  gleamed  with  vivacious  ex 
pression  through  the  dirt  that  incrusted  its  skin,  like  suu- 
Bhine  struggling  through  a  very  dusty  window-pane. 

In  these  streets  the  belted  and  blue-coated  policeman 
appears  seldom  in  comparison  with  the  frequency  of 
his  occurrence  in  more  reputable  thoroughfares.  I  used 
to  think  that  the  inhabitants  would  have  ample  time  to 
murder  one  another,  or  any  stranger,  like  myself,  who 
might  violate  the  filthy  sanctities  of  the  place,  before  the 
law  could  bring  up  its  lumbering  assistance.  Neverthe 
less,  there  is  a  supervision  ;  nor  does  the  watchfulness  of 
authority  permit  the  populace  to  be  tempted  to  any  out 
break.  Once,  in  a  time  of  dearth,  I  noticed  a  ballad- 
singer  going  through  the  street  hoarsely  chanting  some 
discordant  strain  in  a  provincial  dialect,  of  which  I  could 
only  make  out  that  it  addressed  the  sensibilities  of  the 
auditors  on  the  score  of  starvation ;  but  by  his  side 
stalked  the  policeman,  offering  no  interference,  but  watch 
ful  to  hear  what  this,  rough  minstrel  said  or  sang,  and 
silence  him,  if  his  effusion  threatened  to  prove  too  soul- 
stirring.  In  my  judgment,  however,  there  is  little  or  no 
danger  of  that  kind  :  they  starve  patiently,  sicken  pa 
tiently,  die  patiently,  not  through  resignation,  but  a  dis 
eased  flaccidity  of  hope.  If  ever  they  should  do  mischief 
to  those  above  them,  it  will  probably  be  by  the  communi 
cation  of  some  destructive  pestilence ;  for,  so  the  medical 


334      OUTSIDE   GLIMPSES   OF   ENGLISH   POVERTY. 

men  affirm,  they  suffer  all  the  ordinary  diseases  witX  a 
degree  of  virulence  elsewhere  unknown,  and  keep  among 
themselves  traditionary  plagues  that  have  long  ceased  to 
afflict  more  fortunate  societies.  Charity  herself  gathers 
her  robe  about  her  to  avoid  their  contact.  It  would  be  a 
dire  revenge,  indeed,  if  they  were  to  prove  their  claims 
to  be  reckoned  of  one  blood  and  nature  with  the  noblest 
and  wealthiest  by  compelling  them  to  inhale  death  through 
the  diffusion  of  their  own  poverty-poisoned  atmosphere. 

A  true  Englishman  is  a  kind  man  at  heart,  but  has  an 
unconquerable  dislike  to  poverty  and  beggary.  Beggars 
have  heretofore  been  so  strange  to  an  American  that  lie 
is  apt  to  become  their  prey,  being  recognized  through  his 
national  peculiarities,  and  beset  by  them  in  the  streets. 
The  English  smile  at  him,  and  say  that  there  are  amplfi 
public  arrangements  for  every  pauper's  possible  need, 
that  street  charity  promotes  idleness  and  vice,  and  that 
yonder  personification  of  misery  on  the  pavement  will 
lay  up  a  good  day's  profit,  besides  supping  more  luxuri 
ously  than  the  dupe  who  gives  him  a  shilling.  By  and 
by  the  stranger  adopts  their  theory  and  begins  to  prac 
tise  upon  it,  much  to  his  own  temporary  freedom  from 
annoyance,  but  not  entirely  without  moral  detriment  or 
sometimes  a  too  late  contrition.  Years  afterwards,  it 
may  be,  his  memory  is  still  haunted  by  some  vindictive 
wretch  whose  cheeks  were  pale  and  hunger-pinched, 
\vhrse  rags  fluttered  in  the  east  wind,  whose  right  arm 
was  paralyzed  and  his  left  leg  shrivelled  into  a  mere 
nerveless  stick,  but  whom  he  passed  by  remorselessly  be 
cause  an  Englishman  chose  to  say  that  the  fellow's  misery 
looked  too  perfect,  was  too  artistically  got  up,  to  be  gen 
uine.  Even  allowing  this  to  be  true,  (as,  a  hundred 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.     335 

cLances  to  one,  it  was,)  it  would  still  have  been  a  clear 
case  of  economy  to  buy  him  off  with  a  little  loose  silver, 
so  that  his  lamentable  figure  should  not  limp  at  the  heels 
of  your  conscience  all  over  the  world.  To  own  the  truth, 
I  provided  myself  with  several  such  imaginary  persecu 
tors  in  England,  and  recruited  their  number  with  at  least 
one  sickly-looking  wretch  whose  acquaintance  I  first  made 
at  Assisi,  in  Italy,  and,  taking  a  dislike  to  something  sin 
ister  in  his  aspect,  permitted  him  to  beg  early  and  late, 
.ind  all  day  long,  without  getting  a  single  baiocco.  At 
my  latest  glimpse  of  him,  the  villain  avenged  himself, 
not  by  a  volley  of  horrible  curses,  as  any  other  Italian 
beggar  would,  but  by  taking  an  expression  so  grief 
stricken,  want-wrung,  hopeless,  and  withal  resigned,  that 
I  could  paint  his  life-like  portrait  at  this  moment.  Were 
I  to  go  over  the  same  ground  again,  I  would  listen  to  no 
man's  theories,  but  buy  the  little  luxury  of  beneficence 
at  a  cheap  rate,  instead  of  doing  myself  a  moral  mischief 
by  exuding  a  stony  incrustation  over  whatever  natural 
sensibility  I  might  possess. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  were  some  mendicants  whose 
utmost  efforts  I  even  now  felicitate  myself  on  having 
withstood.  Such  was  a  phenomenon  abridged  of  his 
lower  half,  who  beset  me  for  two  or  three  years  together 
and,  in  spite  of  his  deficiency  of  locomotive  members 
had  some  supernatural  method  of  transporting  himself 
(simultaneously,  I  believe)  to  all  quarters  of  the  city 
He  wore  a  sailor's  jacket,  (possibly,  because  skirts  would 
have  been  a  superfluity  to  his  figure,)  and  had  a  remark 
ably  broad-shouldered  and  muscular  frame,  surmounted 
by  a  large,  fresh-colored  face,  which  was  full  of  power 
and  intelligence.  His  dress  and  linen  were  the  perfec 


336      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY. 

tion  of  neatness.  Once  a  day,  at  least,  wherever  I  wei.t, 
I  suddenly  became  aware  of  this  trunk  of  a  man  on  the 
path  before  me,  resting  on  his  base,  and  looking  as  if  he 
had  just  sprouted  out  of  the  pavement,  and  would  sink 
into  it  again  and  reappear  at  some  other  spot  the  instant 
you  left  him  behind.  The  expression  of  his  eye  was 
perfectly  respectful,  but  terribly  fixed,  holding  your  own 
us  by  fascination,  never  once  winking,  never  wavering 
from  its  point-blank  gaze  right  into  your  face,  till  you 
were  completely  beyond  the  range  of  his  battery  of  one 
immense  rifled  cannon.  This  was  his  mode  of  soliciting 
nlms ;  and  he  reminded  mo  of  the  old  beggar  who  ap 
pealed  so  touchingly  to  the  charitable  sympathies  of  Gil 
Bias,  taking  aim  at  him  from  the  roadside  with  a  long- 
barrelled  musket.  The  intentness  and  directness  of  his 
silent  appeal,  his  close  and  unrelenting  attack  upon  your 
individuality,  respectful  as  it  seemed,  was  the  very  flower 
of  insolence ;  or,  if  you  give  it  a  possibly  truer  interpre 
tation,  it  was  the  tyrannical  effort  of  a  man  endowed 
with  great  natural  force  of  character  to  constrain  your 
reluctant  will  to  his  purpose.  Apoarently,  he  had  staked 
his  salvation  upon  the  ultimate  success  of  a  daily  strug 
gle  between  himself  and  me.  the  triumph  of  which  would 
compel  me  to  become  a  tributary  to  the  hat  that  lay  on 
the  pavement  b^-side  him.  Man  or  fiend,  however,  there 
was  a  stubbornness  in  his  intended  victim  which  this  mas- 
sive  fragment  of  a  mighty  personality  had  not  altogether 
reckoned  upon,  and  by  its  aid  I  was  enabled  to  pass  him 
«t  my  customary  pace  hundreds  of  times  over,  quietly 
meeting  his  terribly  respectful  eye,  and  allowing  him  tht 
Cair  chance  which  I  felt  to  be  his  due,  to  subjugate  me,  if 
Ve  really  had  the  strength  for  it.  He  never  succeeded, 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.     337 

»ut,  on  the  other  hand,  never  gave  up  the  contest ;  and 
should  I  ever  walk  those  streets  again,  I  am  certain  that 
the  truncated  tyrant  will  sprout  up  through  the  pave 
ment  and  look  me  fixedly  in  the  eye,  and  perhaps  get  the 
victory. 

I  should  think  all  the  more  highly  of  myself,  if  I  had 
shown  equal  heroism  in  resisting  another  class  of  beg 
garly  depredators,  who  assailed  me  on  my  weaker  side 
and  won  an  easy  spoil.  Such  was  the  sanctimonious 
clergyman,  with  his  white  cravat,  who  visited  me  with  a 
subscription-paper,  which  he  himself  had  drawn  up,  in  a 
case  of  heart-rending  distress ;  —  the  respectable  and 
ruined  tradesman,  going  from  door  to  door,  shy  and  silent 
in  his  own  person,  but  accompanied  by  a  sympathizing 
friend,  who  bore  testimony  to  his  integrity,  and  stated  the 
unavoidable  misfortunes  that  had  crushed  him  down  ;  — 
or  the  delicate  and  prettily  dressed  lady,  who  had  been 
bred  in  affluence,  but  was  suddenly  thrown  upon  the 
perilous  charities  of  the  world  by  the  death  of  an  indul 
gent,  but  secretly  insolvent  father,  or  the  commercial 
catastrophe  and  simultaneous  suicide  of  the  best  of  hus 
bands  ;  —  or  the  gifted,  but  unsuccessful  author,  appeal 
ing  to  my  fraternal  sympathies,  generously  rejoicing  in 
some  small  prosperities  which  he  was  kind  enough  to 
term  my  own  triumphs  in  the  field  of  letters,  and  claim 
ing  to  have  largely  contributed  to  them  by  his  unbought 
notices  in  the  public  journals.  England  is  full  of  such 
people,  and  a  hundred  other  varieties  of  peripatetic  trick 
sters,  higher  than  these,  and  lower,  who  act  their  parts 
tolerably  well,  but  seldom  with  an  absolutely  illusive 
effect.  I  knew  at  once,  raw  Yankee  as  I  was,  that  they 
were  humbugs,  almost  without  an  exception,  —  rats  that 


838      OUTSIDE   GLIMPSES   OF   ENGLISH   POVERTY. 

nibble  at  the  honest  bread  and  cheese  of  the  community, 
and  grow  fat  by  their  petty  pilferings,  —  yet  often  gave 
them  what  they  asked,  and  privately  owned  myself  a 
simpleton.  There  is  a  decorum  which  restrains  you  (un 
less  you  happen  to  be  a  police-constable)  from  breaking 
through  a  crust  of  plausible  respectability,  even  when 
jou  are  certain  that  there  is  a  knave  beneath  it. 

\ 

After  making  myself  as  familiar  as  I  decently  could 
with  the  poor  streets,  I  became  curious  to  see  what  kind 
of  a  home  was  provided  for  the  inhabitants  at  the  public 
expense,  fearing  that  it  must  needs  be  a  most  comfortless 
one,  or  else  their  choice  (if  choice  it  were)  of  so  miser 
able  a  life  outside  was  truly  difficult  to  account  for.  Ac 
cordingly,  I  visited  a  great  almshouse,  and  was  glad  to 
observe  how  unexceptionably  all  the  parts  of  the  establish 
ment  were  carried  on,  and  what  an  orderly  life,  full-fed, 
sufficiently  reposeful,  and  undisturbed  by  the  arbitrary 
exercise  of  authority,  seemed  to  be  led  there.  Possibly, 
indeed,  it  was  that  very  orderliness,  and  the  cruel  neces 
sity  of  being  neat  and  clean,  and  even  the  comfort  result 
ing  from  these  and  other  Christian-like  restraints  and 
regulations,  that  constituted  the  principal  grievance  on 
the  part  of  the  poor,  shiftless  inmates,  accustomed  to 
a  life-long  luxury  of  dirt  and  harum-scarumness.  The 
wild  life  of  the  streets  has  perhaps  as  unforgetable  a 
charm,  to  those  who  have  once  thoroughly  imbibed  it,  as 
the  life  of  the  forest  or  the  prairie.  But  I  conceive 
rather  that  there  must  be  insuperable  difficulties,  for  the 
majority  of  the  poor,  in  the  way  of  getting  admittance  to 
the  almshouse,  than  that  a  merely  aesthetic  preference 
for  the  street  would  incline  the  pauper-class  to  fare 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.      330 

scantily  and  precariously,  and  expose  their  raggedness 
to  the  rain  and  snow,  when  such  a  hospitable  door  stood 
wide  open  for  their  entrance.  It  might  be  that  the  rough 
est  and  darkest  side  of  the  matter  was  not  shown  me, 
there  being  persons  of  eminent  station  and  of  both  sexes 
in  the  party  which  I  accompanied;  and,  of  course,  a 
properly  trained  public  functionary  would  have  deemed 
it  a  monstrous  rudeness,  as  well  as  a  great  shame,  to  ex 
hibit  anything  to  people  of  rank  that  might  too  painfully 
shock  their  sensibilities. 

The  women's  ward  was  the  portion  of  the  establish 
ment  which  we  especially  examined.  It  could  not  be 
questioned  that  they  were  treated  with  kindness  as  well 
as  care.  No  doubt,  as  has  been  already  suggested,  some 
of  them  felt  the  irksomeness  of  submission  to  general 
rules  of  orderly  behavior,  after  being  accustomed  to  that 
perfect  freedom  from  the  minor  proprieties,  at  least,  which 
is  one  of  the  compensations  of  absolutely  hopeless  pov 
erty,  or  of  any  circumstances  that  set  us  fairly  below  the 
decencies  of  life.  I  asked  the  governor  of  the  house 
whether  he  met  with  any  difficulty  in  keeping  peace  and 
order  among  his  inmates ;  and  he  informed  me  that  his 
troubles  among  the  women  were  incomparably  greater 
than  with  the  men.  They  were  freakish,  and  apt  to  be 
quarrelsome,  inclined  to  plague  and  pester  one  another 
n  ways  that  it  was  impossible  to  lay  hold  of,  and  to 
thwart  his  own  authority  by  the  like  intangible  methods. 
lie  said  this  with  the  utmost  good-nature,  and  quite  won 
my  regard  by  so  placidly  resigning  himself  to  the  in 
evitable  necessity  of  letting  the  women  throw  dust  into 
his  eyes.  They  certainly  looked  peaceable  and  sisterly 
enough,  as  I  saw  them,  though  still  it  might  be  faintly 


d40     OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY". 

perceptible  that  some  of  them  were  consciously  playing 
their  parts  before  the  governor  and  his  distinguished 
visitors. 

This  governor  seemed  to  me  a  man  thoroughly  fit  for 
his  position.  An  American,  in  an  office  of  similar  re 
sponsibility,  would  doubtless  be  a  much  superior  person, 
better  educated,  possessing  a  far  wider  range  of  thought, 
more  naturally  acute,  with  a  quicker  tact  of  external  ob 
servation  and  a  readier  faculty  of  dealing  with  difficult 
cases.  The  women  would  not  succeed  in  throwing  half 
so  much  dust  into  his  eyes.  Moreover,  his  black  coat, 
and  thin,  sallow  visage,  would  make  him  look  like  a 
scholar,  and  his  manners  would  indefinitely  approximate 
to  those  of  a  gentleman.  But  I  cannot  help  question 
ing,  whether,  on  the  whole,  these  higher  endowments 
would  produce  decidedly  better  results.  The  English 
man  was  thoroughly  plebeian  both  in  aspect  and  be 
havior,  a  bluff,  ruddy-faced,  hearty,  kindly,  yeoman-like 
personage,  with  no  refinement  whatever,  nor  any  super 
fluous  sensibility,  but  gifted  with  a  native  wholesomeness 
of  character  which  must  have  been  a  very  beneficial 
element  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  almshouse.  He  spoke 
to  his  pauper  family  in  loud,  good-humored,  cheerful 
tones,  and  treated  them  with  a  healthy  freedom  that 
probably  caused  the  forlorn  wretches  to  feel  as  if  they 
were  free  and  healthy  likewise.  If  he  had  understood 
them  a  little  better,  he  would  not  have  treated  them  half 
so  wisely.  We  are  apt  to  make  sickly  people  more  mor 
bid,  and  unfortunate  people  more  miserable,  by  endeavor 
ing  to  adapt  our  deportment  to  their  especial  and  indi 
vidual  needs.  They  eagerly  accept  our  well-meant 
efforts ;  but  it  is  like  returning  their  own  sick  breath 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.     311 

back  upon  themselves,  to  be  breathed  over  and  over 
again,  intensifying  the  inward  mischief  at  every  repe 
tition.  The  sympathy  that  would  really  do  them  good 
is  of  a  kind  that  recognizes  their  sound  and  healthy 
parrs,  and  ignores  the  part  affected  by  disease,  which  will 
thrive  under  the  eye  of  a  too  close  observer  like  a  poison 
ous  weed  in  the  sunshine.  My  good  friend  the  governor 
tad  no  tendencies  in  the  latter  direction,  and  abundance 
of  them  in  the  former,  and  was  consequently  as  whole 
some  and  invigorating  as  the  west  wind  with  a  little 
spice  of  the  north  in  it,  brightening  the  dreary  visages 
that  encountered  us  as  if  he  had  carried  a  sunbeam  in 
his  hand.  He  expressed  himself  by  his  whole  being  and 
personality,  and  by  works  more  than  words,  and  had  the 
not  unusual  English  merit  of  knowing  what  to  do  much 
better  than  how  to  talk  about  it. 

The  women,  I  imagine,  must  have  felt  one  imperfec 
tion  in  their  state,  however  comfortable  otherwise.  They 
were  forbidden,  or,  at  all  events,  lacked  the  means,  to 
follow  out  their  natural  instinct  of  adorning  themselves ; 
all  were  dressed  in  one  homely  uniform  of  blue-checked 
gowns,  with  such  caps  upon  their  heads  as  English  ser 
vants  wear.  Generally,  too,  they  had  one  dowdy  Eng 
lish  aspect,  and  a  vulgar  type  of  features  so  nearly  alike 
that  they  seemed  literally  to  constitute  a  sisterhood. 
We  have  few  of  these  absolutely  unilluminated  faces 
among  our  native  American  population,  individuals  of 
whom  must  be  singularly  unfortunate,  if,  mixing  as  we 
do,  no  drop  of  gentle  blood  has  contributed  to  refine  the 
turbid  element,  no  gleam  of  hereditary  intelligence  has 
lighted  up  the  stolid  eyes,  which  their  forefathers  brought 
from  the  Old  Country.  Even  in  this  English  almshouse, 


* 

342      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF   ENGLISH   POVERTY. 

however,  there  was  at  least  one  person  who  claimed  to  be 
intimately  connected  with  rank  and  wealth.  The  gov 
ernor,  after  .suggesting  that  this  person  would  probably  be 
gratified  by  our  visit,  ushered  us  into  a  small  parlor, 
which  was  furnished  a  little  more  like  a  room  in  a  private 
dwelling  than  others  that  we  entered,  and  had  a  row  of 
religious  books  and  fashionable  novels  on  the  mantel 
piece.  An  old  lady  sat  at  a  bright  coal  fire,  reading  a 
romance,  and  rose  to  receive  us  with  a  certain  pomp  of 
manner  and  elaborate  display  of  ceremonious  courtesy, 
which,  in  spite  of  myself,  made  me  inwardly  question  the 
genuineness  of  her  aristocratic  pretensions.  But,  at  any 
rate,  she  looked  like  a  respectable  old  soul,  and  was  evi 
dently  gladdened  to  the  very  core  of  her  frost-bitten 
heart  by  the  awful  punctiliousness  with  which  we  re 
sponded  to  her  gracious  and  hospitable,  though  unfa 
miliar  welcome.  After  a  little  polite  conversation,  we 
retired  ;  and  the  governor,  with  a  lowered  voice  and-  an 
air  of  deference,  told  us  that  she  had  been  a  lady  of 
quality,  and  had  ridden  in  her  own  equipage,  not  many 
years  before,  and  now  lived  in  continual  expectation  that 
some  of  her  rich  relatives  would  drive  up  in  their  car 
riages  to  take  her  away.  Meanwhile,  he  added,  she  was 
treated  with  great  respect  by  her  fellow-paupers.  I  could 
not  help  thinking,  from  a  few  criticisable  peculiarities  in 
her  talk  and  manner,  that  there  might  have  been  a  mis- 
fake  on  the  governor's  part,  and  perhaps  a  venial  exag 
geration  on  the  old  lady's,  concerning  her  former  position 
in  society  ;  but  what  struck  me  was  the  forcible  instance 
of  that  most  prevalent  of  English  vanities,  the  preten 
sion  to  aristocratic  connection,  on  one  side,  and  the  sub- 
missi  :>n  and  reverence  with  which  it  was  accepted  by  the 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.      343 

governor  and  his  household,  on  the  other.  Among  our 
selves,  I  think,  when  wealth  and  eminent  position  have 
taken  their  departure,  they  seldom  leave  a  pallid  ghost 
behind  them,  —  or,  if  it  sometimes  stalks  abroad,  few 
recognize  it. 

We  went  into  several  other  rooms,  at  the  doors  of 
which,  pausing  on  the  outside,  we  could  hear  the  voli.- 
bility,  and  sometimes  the  wrangling,  of  the  female  in 
habitants  within,  but  invariably  found  silence  and  peace 
when  we  stepped  over  the  threshold.  The  women  were 
grouped  together  in  their  sitting-rooms,  sometimes  three 
or  four,  sometimes  a  larger  number,  classified  by  their 
spontaneous  affinities,  I  suppose,  and  all  busied,  so  far  as 
I  can  remember,  with  the  one  occupation  of  knitting  coarse 
yarn  stockings.  Hardly  any  of  them,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
had  a  brisk  or  cheerful  air,  though  it  often  stirred  them 
up  to  a  momentary  vivacity  to  be  accosted  by  the  gover 
nor,  and  they  seemed  to  like  being  noticed,  however 
slightly,  by  the  visitors.  The  happiest  person  whom  I 
saw  there  (and,  running  hastily  through  my  experiences, 
I  hardly  recollect  to  have  seen  a  happier  one  in  my  life, 
if  you  take  a  careless  flow  of  spirits  as  happiness)  was 
an  old  woman  that  lay  in  bed  among  ten  or  twelve  heavy- 
looking  females,  who  plied  their  knitting-work  round 
about  her.  She  laughed,  when  we  entered,  and  imme 
diately  began  to  talk  to  us,  in  a  thin,  little,  spirited 
quaver,  claiming  to  be  more  than  a  century  old ;  and  the 
governor  (in  whatever  way  he  happened  to  be  cognizant 
of  the  fact)  confirmed  her  age  to  be  a  hundred  and  four. 
Her  jauntiness  and  cackling  merriment  were  really  won 
derful.  It  was  as  if  she  had  got  through  with  all  her 
actual  business  in  life  two  or  three  generations  ago,  and 


344      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY. 

now,  freed  from  every  responsibility  for  herself  or  others, 
had  only  to  keep  up  a  mirthful  state  of  mind  till  the  short 
time,  or  long  time,  (and,  happy  as  she  was,  she  appeared 
not  to  care  whether  it  were  long  or  short,)  before  Death, 
who  had  misplaced  her  name  in  his  list,  might  remember 
to  take  her  away.  She  had  gone  quite  round  the  circle 
of  human  existence,  and  come  back  to  the  play-ground 
again.  And  so  she  had  grown  to  be  a  "kind  of  miraculous 
old  pet,  the  -plaything  of  people  seventy  or  eighty  years 
younger  than  herself,  who  talked  and  laughed  with  her 
as  if  she  were  a  child,  finding  great  delight  in  her  way 
ward  and  strangely  playful  responses,  into  some  of  which 
she  cunningly  conveyed  a  gibe  that  caused  their  ears  tc 
tingle  a  little.  She  had  done  getting  out  of  bed  in  this 
world,  and  lay  there  to  be  waited  upon  like  a  queen  or  a 
baby. 

In  the  same  room  sat  a  pauper  who  had  once  been  an 
actress  of  considerable  repute,  but  was  compelled  to  give 
up  her  profession  by  a  softening  of  the  brain.  The  dis 
ease  seemed  to  have  stolen  the  continuity  out  of  her 
life,  and  disturbed  all  healthy  relationship  between  the 
thoughts  within  her  and  the  world  without.  On  our  first 
entrance,  she  looked  cheerfully  at  us,  and  showed  herself 
ready  to  engage  in  conversation ;  but  suddenly,  while  we 
were  talking  with  the  century-old  crone,  the  poor  actress 
began  to  weep,  contorting  her  face  with  extravagant 
stage-grimaces,  and  wringing  her  hands  for  some  inscru 
table  sorrow.  It  might  have  been  a  reminiscence  of 
actual  calamity  in  her  past  life,  or,  quite  as  probably,  it 
was  but  a  dramatic  woe,  beneath  which  she  had  stag 
gered  and  shrieked  and  wrung  her  hands  with  hundreds 
of  repetitions  in  the  sight  of  crowded  theatres,  and  been 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.     315 

as  often  comforted  by  thunders  of  applause.  But  my 
idea  of  the  mystery  was,  that  she  had  a  sense  of  wrong 
in  seeing  the  aged  woman  (whose  empty  vivacity  was 
like  the  rattling  of  dry  peas  in  a  bladder)  chosen  as  tho 
central  object  of  interest  to  the  visitors,  while  she  her 
self,  who  had  agitated  thousands  of  hearts  with  a  breath, 
sat  starving  for  the  admiration  that  was  her  natural  food. 
I  appeal  to  the  whole  society  of  artists  of  the  Beautiful 
and  tho  Imaginative,  —  poets,  romancers,  painters,  sculp 
tors,  actors,  —  whether  or  no  this  is  a  grief  that  may  be 
felt  even  amid  the  torpor  of  a  dissolving  brair  ! 

We  looked  into  a  good  many  sleeping -chambers, 
where  were  rows  of  beds,  mostly  calculated  for  two  oc 
cupants,  and  provided  with  sheets  and  pillow-cases  that 
resembled  sackcloth.  It  appeared  to  me  that  the  sense 
of  beauty  was  insufficiently  regarded  in  all  the  arrange 
ments  of  the  almshouse  ;  a  little  cheap  luxury  for  the 
eye,  at  least,  might  do  the  poor  folks  a  substantial  good. 
But,  at  all  events,  there  was  the  beauty  of  perfect  neat 
ness  and  orderliness,  which,  being  heretofore  known  to 
few  of  them,  was  perhaps  as  much  as  they  could  well 
digest  in  the  remnant  of  their  lives.  We  were  invited 
into  the  laundry,  where  a  great  washing  and  drying  were 
in  process,  the  whole  atmosphere  being  hot  and  vaporous 
with  the  steam  of  wet  garments  and  bedclothes.  This 
atmosphere  was  the  pauper-life  of  the  past  week  or  fort 
night  resolved  into  a  gaseous  state,  and  breathing  it,  how 
ever  fastidiously,  we  were  forced  to  inhale  the  strange 
element  into  our  inmost  being.  Had  the  Queen  been 
there,  I  know  not  how  she  could  have  escaped  the  neces 
sity.  What  an  intimate  brotherhood  is  this  in  which  we 
dwell,  do  what  we  may  to  put  an  artificial  remoteness 


S4G      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY. 

between  the  high  creature  and  the  low  one  !  A  pool 
man's  breath,  borne  on  the  vehicle  of  tobacco-smoke, 
floats  into  a  palace-window  and  reaches  the  nostrils  of  a 
monarch.  It  is  but  an  example,  obvious  to  the  sense,  of 
the  innumerable  and  secret  channels  by  which,  at  every 
moment  of  our  lives,  the  flow  and  reflux  of  a  common  • 
humanity  pervade  us  all.  How  superficial  are  the  nice 
ties  of  such  as  pretend  to  keep  aloof!  Let  the  whole 
world  be  cleansed,  or  not  a  man  or  woman  of  us  all  can 
be  clean. 

By  and  by  we  came  to  the  ward  where  the  children 
were  kept,  on  entering  which,  we  saw,  in  the  first  place, 
several  unlovely  and  unwholesome  little  people  lazily 
playing  together  in  a  courtyard.  And  here  a  singular 
incommodity  befell  one  member  of  our  party.  Among 
the  children  was  a  wretched,  pale,  half-torpid  little  thing, 
(about  six  years  old,  perhaps,  but  I  know  not  whether  a 
girl  or  a  boy,)  with  a  humor  in  its  eyes  and  face,  which 
the  governor  said  was  the  scurvy,  and  which  appeared  to 
bedim  its  powers  of  rision,  so  that  it  toddled  about  grop 
ingly,  as  if  in  quest  of  it  did  not  precisely  know  what. 
This  child — this  sickly,  wretched,  humor-eaten  infant,  the 
offspring  of  unspeakable  sin  and  sorrow,  whom  it  must 
have  required  several  generations  of  guilty  progenitors  to 
render  so  pitiable  an  object  as  we  beheld  it  —  imme 
diately  took  an  unaccountable  fancy  to  the  gentleman 
just  hinted  at.  It  prowled  about  him  like  a  pet  kitten, 
rubbing  against  his  legs,  following  everywhere  at  his 
heels,  pulling  at  his  coat-tails,  and,  at  last,  exerting  all 
the  speed  that  its  poor  limbs  were  capable  of,  got  directly 
before  him  and  held  forth  its  arms,  mutely  insisting  on 
being  taken  up.  It  said  not  a  word,  being  perhaps  under' 


OCTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF   ENGLISH   POVERTY.      347 

ivitted  and  incapable  of  prattle.  But  it  smiled  up  in  his 
face.  —  a  sort  of  woful  gleam  was  that  smile,  through  the 
Bicklv  blotches  that  covered  its  features,  —  and  found 
means  to  express  such  a  perfect  confidence  that  it  was 
going  to  be  fondled  and  made  much  of,  that  there  was  no 
possibility  in  a  human  heart  of  balking  its  expectation. 
It  was  as  if  God  had  promised  the  poor  child  this  favor 
on  behalf  of  that  individual,  and  he  was  bound  to  fuliil 
the  contract,  or  else  no  longer  call  himself  a  man  among 
men.  Nevertheless,  it  could  be  no  easy  thing  for  him  to 
do,  he  being  a  person  burdened  with  more  than  an  Eng 
lishman's  customary  reserve,  shy  of  actual  contact  with 
human  beings,  afflicted  with  a  peculiar  distaste  for  what 
ever  was  ugly,  and,  furthermore,  accustomed  to  that  habit 
of  observation  from  an  insulated  stand-point  which  is  said 
(but,  I  hope,  erroneously)  to  have  the  tendency  of  put 
ting  ice  into  the  blood. 

So  I  watched  the  struggle  in  his  mind  with  a  good  deal 
of  interest,  and  am  seriously  of  opinion  that  he  did  an 
heroic  act,  and  effected  more  than  he  dreamed  of  towards 
his  final  salvation,  when  he  took  up  the  loathsome  child 
and  caressed  it  as  tenderly  as  if  he  had  been  its  father. 
To  be  sure,  we  all  smiled  at  him,  at  the  time,  but  doubt 
less  would  have  acted  pretty  much  the  same  in  a  similar 
stress  of  circumstances.  The  child,  at  any  rate,  appeared 
to  be  satisfied  with  his  behavior ;  for  when  he  had  held  i 
a  considerable  time,  and  set  it  down,  it  still  favored  hin 
with  its  company,  keeping  fast  hold  of  his  forefinger  till 
we  reached  the  confines  of  the  place.  And  on  our  return 
through  the  courtyard,  after  visiting  another  part  of  the 
establishment,  here  again  was  this  same  little  Wretched 
ness  waiting  for  its  victim,  with  a  smile  of  joyful,  and  yer 


848      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY. 

dull  recognition  about  its  scabby  mouth  and  in  its  rheumy 
eyes.  No  doubt,  the  child's  mission  in  reference  to  our 
friend  was  to  remind  him  that  he  was  responsible,  in  his 
degree,  for  all  the  sufferings  and  misdemeanors  of  the 
world  in  which  he  lived,  and  was  not  entitled  to  look 
upon  a  particle  of  its  dark  calamity  as  if  it  were  none  of 
his  concern  :  the  offspring  of  a  brother's  iniquity  being 
his  own  blood-relation,  and  the  guilt,  likewise,  a  burden 
on  him,  unless  he  expiated  it  by  better  deeds. 

All  the  children  in  this  ward  seemed  to  be  invalids, 
and,  going  up-stairs,  we  found  more  of  them  in  the  same 
or  a  worse  condition  than  the  little  creature  just  described, 
with  their  mothers  (or  more  probably  other  women,  for 
the  infants  were  mostly  foundlings)  in  attendance  as 
nurses.  The  matron  of  the  ward,  a  middle-aged  woman, 
remarkably  kind  and  motherly  in  aspect,  was  walking  to 
and  fro  across  the  chamber  —  on  that  weary  journey  in 
which  careful  mothers  and  nurses  travel  so  continually 
and  so  far,  and  gain  never  a  step  of  progress  —  with  an, 
unquiet  baby  in  her  arms.  She  assured  us  that  she  en 
joyed  her  occupation,  being  exceedingly  fond  of  children ; 
and,  in  fact,  the  absence  of  timidity  in  all  the  little  peo 
ple  was  a  sufficient  proof  that  they  could  have  had  no 
experience  of  harsh  treatment,  though,  on  the  other 
hand,  none  of  them  appeared  to  be  attracted  to  one  in 
dividual  more  than  another.  In  this  point  they  differed 
widely  from  the  poor  child  below-stairs.  They  seemed 
to  recognize  a  universal  motherhood  in  womankind,  and 
cared  not  which  individual  might  be  the  mother  of  the 
ynoment.  I  found  their  tameness  as  shocking  as  did 
Alexander  Selkirk  that  of  the  brute  subjects  of  his  else 
solitary  kingdom.  It  was  a  sort  of  tame  familiarity,  a 


OUTSIDE   GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH   POVERTY.      319 

perfect  indifference  to  the  approach  of  strangers,  such  as 
I  never  noticed  in  other  children.  I  accounted  for  it 
partly  by  their  nerveless,  unstrung  state  of  body,  incapa 
ble  of  the  quick  thrills  of  delight  and  fear  which  play 
upon  the  lively  harp-strings  of  a  healthy  child's  nature, 
and  partly  by  their  wofui  lack  of  acquaintance  with  a 
private  home,  and  their  being  therefore  destitute  of  tha 
sweet  homebred  shyness,  which  is  like  the  sanctity  of 
heaven  about  a  mother-petted  child.  Their  condition 
was  like  that  of  chickens  hatched  in  an  oven,  and  grow 
ing  up  without  the  especial  guardianship  of  a  matron- 
hen:  both  the  chicken  and  the  child,  methinks,  must 
needs  want  something  that  is  essential  to  their  respec 
tive  characters. 

In  this  chamber  (which  was  spacious,  containing  a 
large  number  of  beds)  there  was  a  clear  fire  burning  on 
the  hearth,  as  in  all  the  other  occupied  rooms ;  and 
directly  in  front  of  the  blaze  sat  a  woman  holding  a 
baby,  which,  beyond  all  reach  of  comparison,  was  the 
most  horrible  object  that  ever  afflicted  my  sight.  Days 
afterwards  —  nay,  even  now,  when  I  bring  it  up  vividly 
before  my  mind's  eye  —  it  seemed  to  lie  upon  the  floor 
of  my  heart,  polluting  my  moral  being  with  the  sense  of 
something  grievously  amiss  in  the  entire  conditions  of  hu 
manity.  The  holiest  man  could  not  be  otherwise  than 
full  of  wickedness,  the  chastest  virgin  seemed  impure,  ii 
a  world  where  such  a  babe  was  possible.  The  governo 
whispered  me,  apart,  that,  like  nearly  all  the  rest  of  them 
it  was  the  child  of  unhealthy  parents.  Ah,  yes  !  There 
was  the  mischief.  This  spectral  infant,  a  hideous  mock 
ery  of  the  visible  link  which  Love  creates  between  man 
and  woman,  was  born  of  disease  and  sin.  Diseased  Sin 


350      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY. 

was  its  father,  and  Sinful  Disease  its  mother,  and  their  off 
spring  lay  in  the  woman's  arms  like  a  nursing  Pestilence, 
which,  could  it  live  and  grow  up,  would  make  the  world 
a  more  accursed  abode  than  ever  heretofore.  Thank 
Heaven,  it  could  not  live  !  This  baby,  if  we  must  give 
it  that  sweet  name,  seemed  to  be  three  or  four  months 
old,  but,  being  such  an  unthrifty  changeling,  might  have 
been  considerably  older.  It  was  all  covered  with  blotches, 
and  preternaturally  dark  and  discolored  ;  it  was  withered 
away,  quite  shrunken  and  fleshless;  it  breathed  only 
amid  pantings  and  gaspings,  and  moaned  painfully  at 
every  gasp.  The  only  comfort  in  reference  to  it  was  the 
evident  impossibility  of  its  surviving  to  draw  many  more 
of  those  miserable,  moaning  breaths ;  and  it  would  have 
been  infinitely  less  heart-depressing  to  see  it  die,  right 
before  my  eyes,  than  to  depart  and  carry  it  alive  in  my 
remembrance,  still  suffering  the  incalculable  torture  of 
its  little  life.  I  can  by  no  means  express  how  horrible 
this  infant  was,  neither  ought  I  to  attempt  it.  And  yet 
I  must  add  one  final  touch.  Young  as  the  poor  little 
creature  was,  its  pain  and  misery  had  endowed  it  with 
a  premature  intelligence,  insomuch  that  its  eyes  seemed 
to  stare  at  the  by-standers  out  of  their  sunken  sockets 
knowingly  and  appealingly,  as  if  summoning  us  one  and 
all  to  witness  the  deadly  wrong  of  its  existence.  At  least, 
I  so  interpreted  its  look,  when  it  positively  met  and  re 
sponded  to  my  own  awe-stricken  gaze,  and  therefore  I  lay 
the  case,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  before  mankind,  on  whom 
God  has  imposed  the  necessity  to  suffer  in  soul  and  body 
till  this  dark  and  dreadful  wrong  be  righted. 

Thence  we  went  to  the  school-rooms,  which  were  un 
derneath  the  chapel.    The  pupils,  like  the  children  whom 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH   POVERTY.      351 

we  liacl  just  seen,  were,  in  large  proportion,  foundlings. 
Almost  without  exception,  they  looked  sickly,  with  marks 
of  eruptive  trouble  in  their  doltish  faces,  and  a  general 
tendency  to  diseases  of  the  eye.  Moreover,  the  poor 
little  wretches  appeared  to  be  uneasy  within  their  skins, 
and  screwed  themselves  about  on  the  benches  in  a  dis 
agreeably  suggestive  way,  as  if  they  had  inherited  the 
evil  habits  of  their  parents  as  an  innermost  garment  of 
the  same  texture  and  material  as  the  shirt  of  Nessus, 
and  must  wear  it  with  unspeakable  discomfort  as  long  as 
they  lived.  I  saw  only  a  single  child  that  looked  healthy  ; 
and  on  my  pointing  him  out,  the  governor  informed  me 
that  this  little  boy,  the  sole  exception  to  the  miserable 
aspect  of  his  school-fellows,  was  not  a  foundling,  nor 
properly  a  work-house  child,  being  born  of  respectable 
parentage,  and  his  father  one  of  the  officers  of  the  insti 
tution.  As  for  the  remainder,  —  the  hundred  pale  abor 
tions  to  be  counted  against  one  rosy-cheeked  boy,  —  what 
shall  we  say  or  do  ?  Depressed  by  the  sight  of  so  much 
misery,  and  uninventive  of  remedies  for  the  evils  that 
force  themselves  on  my  perception,  I  can  do  little  more 
than  recur  to  the  idea  already  hinted  at  in  the  early  part 
of  this  article,  regarding  the  speedy  necessity  of  a  new 
deluge.  So  far  as  these  children  are  concerned,  at  any 
rate,  it  would  be  a  blessing  to  the  human  race,  which 
they  will  contribute  to  enervate  and  corrupt,  —  a  greater 
blessing  to  themselves,  who  inherit  no  patrimony  but  dis 
ease  and  vice,  and  in  whose  souls  if  there  be  a  spark  of 
God's  life,  this  seems  the  only  possible  mode  of  keeping 
it  aglow,  —  if  every  one  of  them  could  be  drowned  to 
night,  by  their  best  friends,  instead  of  being  put  tenderly 
to  bed.  This  heroic  method  of  treating  human  maladiea, 


3o2      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY. 

moral  and  material,  is  certainly  beyond  the  scope  of  man;r 
discretionary  rights,  and  probably  will  not  be  adopted  by 
Divine  Providence  until  the  opportunity  of  milder  refor 
mation  shall  have  been  offered  us,  again  and  again, 
through  a  series  of  future  ages. 

It  may  be  fair  to  acknowledge  that  the  humane  and 
excellent  governor,  as  well  as  other  persons  better  ac 
quainted  with  the  subject  than  myself,  took  a  less  gloomy 
view  of  it,  though  still  so  dark  a  one  as  to  involve  scanty 
consolation.  They  remarked  that  individuals  of  the  male 
sex,  picked  up  in  the  streets  and  nurtured  in  the  work 
house,  sometimes  succeed  tolerably  well  in  life,  because 
they  are  taught  trades  before  being  turned  into  the  world, 
and,  by  dint  of  immaculate  behavior  and  good  luck,  are 
not  unlikely  to  get  employment  and  earn  a  livelihood. 
The  case  is  different  with  the  girls.  They  can  only  go 
to  service,  and  are  invariably  rejected  by  families  of  re 
spectability  on  account  of  their  origin,  and  for  the  better 
reason  of  their  unfitness  to  fill  satisfactorily  even  the 
meanest  situations  in  a  well-ordered  English  household. 
Their  resource  is  to  take  service  with  people  only  a  step 
or  two  above  the  poorest  class,  with  whom  they  fare 
scantily,  endure  harsh  treatment,  lead  shifting  and  pre 
carious  lives,  and  finally  drop  into  the  slough  of  evil, 
through  which,  in  their  best  estate,  they  do  but  pick  their 
slimy  way  on  stepping-stones. 

From  the  schools  we  went  to  the  bake-house,  and  tho 
brew-house,  (for  such  cruelty  is  not  harbored  in  the  heart 
of  a  true  Englishman  as  to  deny  a  pauper  his  daily  allow 
ance  of  beer,)  and  through  the  kitchens,  where  we  be 
held  an  immense  pot  over  the  fire,  surging  and  walloping 
with  some  kind  of  a  savory  stew  that  filled  it  up  to  its 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.      353 

brim.  We  also  visited  a  tailor's  shop,  and  a  shoemaker's 
shop,  in  both  of  which  a  number  of  men,  and  pale,  dimin 
utive  apprentices,  were  at  work,  diligently  enough,  though 
seemingly  with  small  heart  in  the  business.  Finally,  the 
governor  ushered  us  into  a  shed,  inside  of  which  was  piled 
ap  an  immense  quantity  of  new  coffins.  They  were  of  the 
plainest  description,  made  of  pine  boards,  probably  of 
American  growth,  not  very  nicely  smoothed  by  the  plane, 
aeither  painted  nor  stained  with  black,  but  provided  with 
a.  loop  of  rope  at  either  end  for  the  convenience  of  lifting 
the  rude  box  and  its  inmate  into  the  cart  that  shall  carry 
them  to  the  burial-ground.  There,  in  holes  ten  feet  deep, 
the  paupers  are  buried  one  above  another,  mingling  their 
relics  indistinguishably.  In  another  world  may  they  re 
sume  their  individuality,  and  find  it  a  happier  one  than 
here! 

As  we  departed,  a  character  came  under  our  notice 
which  I  have  met  with  in  all  almshouses,  whether  of  the 
city  or  village,  or  in  England  or  America.  It  was  the 
familiar  simpleton,  who  shuffled  across  the  courtyard, 
clattering  his  wooden-soled  shoes,  to  greet  us  with  a  howl 
or  a  laugh,  I  hardly  know  which,  holding  out  his  hand 
for  a  penny,  and  chuckling  grossly  when  it  was  given 
him.  All  underwitted  persons,  so  far  as  my  experience 
goes,  have  this  craving  for  copper  coin,  and  appear  to 
estimate  its  value  by  a  miraculous  instinct,  which  is  one 
of  the  earliest  gleams  of  human  intelligence  while  the 
nobler  faculties  are  yet  in  abeyance.  There  may  come  a 
time,  even  in  this  world,  when  we  shall  all  understand 
that  our  tendency  to  the  individual  appropriation  of  gold 
and  broad  acres,  fine  houses,  and  such  good  and  beautiful 
things  as  are  equally  enjoyable  by  a  multitude,  is  but  a 


354      OUTSIDE   GLIMPSES   OF   ENGLISH    POVERTY. 

trait  of  imperfectly  developed  intelligence,  like  the  sim 
pleton's  cupidity  of  a  penny.  When  that  day  dawns,  — • 
and  probably  not  till  then,  —  I  imagine  that  there  will 
be  no  more  poor  streets  nor  need  of  almshouses. 

I  was  once  present  at  the  wedding  of  some  poor  Eng 
lish  people,  and  was  deeply  impressed  by  the  spectacle, 
though  by  no  means  with  such  proud  and  delightful  emo 
tions  as  seem  to  have  affected  all  England  on  the  recent 
occasion  of  the  marriage  of  its  Prince.  It  was  in  tho 
Cathedral  at  Manchester,  a  particularly  black  and  grim 
old  structure,  into  which  I  had  stepped  to  examine  some 
ancient  and  curious  wood-carvings  within  the  choir.  The 
woman  in  attendance  greeted  me  with  a  smile,  (which 
always  glimmers  forth  on  the  feminine  visage,  I  know 
not  why,  when  a  wedding  is  in  question,)  and  asked  me 
to  take  a  seat  in  the  nave  till  some  poor  parties  were 
married,  it  being  the  Easter  holidays,  and  a  good  time  for 
them  to  marry,  because  no  fees  would  be  demanded  by 
the  clergyman.  I  sat  down  accordingly,  and  soon  the 
parson  and  his  clerk  appeared  at  the  altar,  and  a  con 
siderable  crowd  of  people  made  their  entrance  at  a  side- 
door,  and  ranged  themselves  in  a  long,  huddled  line  across 
the  chancel.  They  were  my  acquaintances  of  the  poor 
streets,  or  persons  in  a  precisely  similar  condition  of  life 
and  were  now  come  to  their  marriage-ceremony  in  jus 
such  garbs  as  I  had  always  seen  them  wear :  the  men  in 
their  loafers'  coats,  out  at  elbows,  or  their  laborers 
jackets,  defaced  with  grimy  toil ;  the  women  drawing 
their  shabby  shawls  tighter  about  their  shoulders,  to  hide 
the  raggedness  beneath  ;  all  of  them  unbrushed,  un 
shaven,  unwashed,  uncombed,  and  wrinkled  with  penury 
and  care  ;  nothing  virgin-like  in  the  brides,  nor  hopeful 


OUTSIDE   GLIMPSES   OF   ENGLISH   POVERTY.      355 

or  energetic  in  the  bridegrooms  ;  —  they  were,  in  short, 
the  mere  rags  and  tatters  of  the  human  race,  whom  some 
east-wind  of  evil  omen,  howling  along  the  streets,  had 
chanced  to  sweep  together  into  an  unfragrant  heap. 
Each  and  all  of  them,  conscious  of  his  or  her  individual 
misery,  had  blundered  into  the  strange  miscalculation  of 
supposing  that  they  could  lessen  the  sum  of  it  by  multi 
plying  it  into  the  misery  of  another  person.  All  the 
couples  (and  it  was  difficult,  in  such  a  confused  crowd,  to 
compute  exactly  their  number)  stood  up  at  once,  and  had 
execution  done  upon  them  in  the  lump,  the  clergyman 
addressing  only  small  parts  of  the  service  to  each  indi 
vidual  pair,  but  so  managing  the  larger  portion  as  to  in 
clude  the  whole  company  without  the  trouble  of  repe 
tition.  By  this  compendious  contrivance,  one  would 
apprehend,  he  came  dangerously  near  making  every 
man  and  woman  the  husband  or  wife  of  every  other 
nor,  perhaps,  would  he  have  perpetrated  much  additional 
mischief  by  the  mistake ;  but,  after  receiving  a  ben°dic- 
tion  in  common,  they  assorted  themselves  in  their  own 
fashion,  as  they  only  knew  how,  and  departed  to  the  gar 
rets,  or  the  cellars,  or  the  unsheltered  street-corners, 
where  their  honeymoon  and  subsequent  lives  were  to  be 
spent.  The  parson  smiled  decorously,  the  clerk  and  the 
sexton  grinned  broadly,  the  female  attendant  tittered  al 
most  aloud,  and  even  the  married  parties  seemed  to  see 
something  exceedingly  funny  in  the  affair ;  but  for  my 
part,  though  generally  apt  enough  to  be  tickled  by  a  joke, 
I  laid  it  away  in  my  memory  as  one  of  the  saddest  sights 
I  ever  looked  upon. 

Not  very  long  afterwards,  I  happened  to  be  passing  the 
*~'\ie  venerable  Cathedral,  and  heard  a  clang  of  joyful 


356      OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY. 

bells,  and  beheld  a  bridal  party  coming  down  the  steps 
towards  a  carriage  and  four  horses,  with  a  portly  coach 
man  and  two  postilions,  that  waited  at  the  gate.  One 
parson  and  one  service  had  amalgamated  the  wretched 
ness  of  a  score  of  paupers  ;  a  Bishop  and  three  or  four 
clergymen  had  combined  their  spiritual  might  to  forge 
the  golden  links  of  this  other  marriage-bond.  The  bride 
groom's  mien  had  a  sort  of  careless  and  kindly  Eng 
lish  pride  ;  the  bride  floated  along  in  her  white  drapery, 
a  creature  so  nice  and  delicate  that  it  was  a  luxury  to 
see  her,  and  a  pity  that  her  silk  slippers  should  touch 
anything  so  grimy  as  the  old  stones  of  the  churchyard 
avenue.  The  crowd  of  ragged  people,  who  always  clus 
ter  to  witness  what  they  may  of  an  aristocratic  wedding, 
broke  into  audible  admiration  of  the  bride's  beauty  and 
the  bridegroom's  manliness,  and  uttered  prayers  and 
ejaculations  (possibly  paid  for  in  alms)  for  the  happiness 
of  both.  If  the  most  favorable  of  earthly  conditions 
could  make  them  happy,  they  had  every  prospect  of  it. 
They  were  going  to  live  on  their  abundance  in  one  of 
those  stately  and  delightful  English  homes,  such  as  no 
other  people  ever  created  or  inherited,  a  hall  set  far  and 
safe  within  its  own  private  grounds,  and  surrounded  with 
venerable  trees,  shaven  lawns,  rich  shrubbery,  and  trim 
mest  pathways,  the  whole  so  artfully  contrived  and  tended 
hat  summer  rendered  it  a  paradise,  and  even  winter 
would  hardly  disrobe  it  of  its  beauty ;  and  all  this  fair 
property  seemed  more  exclusively  and  inalienably  their 
own,  because  of  its  descent  through  many  forefathers, 
each  of  whom  had  added  an  improvement  or  a  charm, 
and  thus  transmitted  it  with  a  stronger  stamp  of  rightful 
possession  to  his  heir.  And  is  it  possible,  after  all,  that 


OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY.      357 

there  may  be  a  flaw  in  the  title-deeds  ?  Is,  or  is  not,  the 
system  wrong  that  gives  one  married  pair  so  immense  a 
superfluity  of  luxurious  home,  and  shuts  out  a  million 
others  from  any  home,  whatever  ?  One  day  or  another 
safe  as  they  deem  themselves,  and  safe  as  the  hereditary 
temper  of  the  people  really  tends  to  make  them,  the 
gentlemen  of  England  will  be  compelled  to  face  thia 
uestion. 


CIVIC  BANQUET'S. 

IT  has  often  perplexed  me  to  imagine  how  an  English 
man  will  be  able  to  reconcile  himself  to  any  future  state 
of  existence  from  which  the  earthly  institution  of  dinner 
shall  be  excluded.  Even  if  he  fail  to  take  his  appetite 
along  with  him,  (which  it  seems  to  me  hardly  possible  to 
believe,  since  this  endowment  is  so  essential  to  his  com 
position,)  the  immortal  day  must  still  admit  an  interim 
of  two  or  three  hours  during  which  he  will  be  conscious 
of  a  slight  distaste,  at  all  events,  if  not  an  absolute  re 
pugnance,  to  merely  spiritual  nutriment.  The  idea  of 
dinner  has  so  imbedded  itself  among  his  highest  and 
deepest  characteristics,  so  illuminated  itself  with  intellect 
and  softened  itself  with  the  kindest  emotions  of  his  heart, 
so  linked  itself  with  Church  and  State,  and  grown  so 
majestic  with  long  hereditary  customs  and  ceremonies, 
that,  by  taking  it  utterly  away,  Death,  instead  of  putting 
the  final  touch  to  his  perfection,  would  leave  him  in 
finitely  less  complete  than  we  have  already  known  him. 
He  could  not  be  roundly  happy.  Paradise,  among  all  its 
enjoyments,  would  lack  one  daily  felicity  which  his  som 
bre  little  island  possessed.  Perhaps  it  is  not  irreverent 
to  conjecture  that  a  provision  may  have  been  made,  in 
this  particular,  for  the  Englishman's  exceptional  neces 
sities.  It  strikes  me  that  Milton  was  of  the  opinion  here 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  359 

suggested,  and  may  have  intended  to  throw  out  a  delight 
ful  and  consolatory  hope  for  his  countrymen,  when  he 
represents  the  genial  archangel  as  playing  his  part  with 
such  excellent  appetite  at  Adam's  dinner-table,  and  con 
fining  himself  to  fruit  and  vegetables  only  because,  iu 
those  early  days  of  her  housekeeping,  Eve  had  no  more 
acceptable  viands  to  set  before  him.  Milton,  indeed,  had 
a  true  English  taste  for  the  pleasures  of  the  table, 
though  refined  by  the  lofty  and  poetic  discipline  to  which 
he  had  subjected  himself.  It  is  delicately  implied  in  the 
refection  in  Paradise,  arid  more  substantially,  though  still 
elegantly,  betrayed  in  the  sonnet  proposing  to  "  Lau 
rence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son,"  a  series  of  nice 
little  dinners  in  midwinter ;  and  it  blazes  fully  out  in  that 
untasted  banquet  which,  elaborate  as  it  was,  Satan  tossed 
up  in  a  trice  from  the  kitchen-ranges  of  Tartarus. 

Among  this  people,  indeed,  so  wise  in  their  generation, 
dinner  has  a  kind  of  sanctity  quite  independent  of  the 
dishes  that  may  be  set  upon  the  table ;  so  that,  if  it  be 
only  a  mutton-chop,  they  treat  it  with  due  reverence,  and 
are  rewarded  with  a  degree  of  enjoyment  which  such 
reckless  devourers  as  ourselves  do  not  often  find  in  our 
richest  abundance.  It  is  good  to  see  how  stanch  they  are 
after  fifty  or  sixty  years  of  heroic  eating,  still  relying 
upon  their  digestive  powers  and  indulging  a  vigorous  ap 
petite  ;  whereas  an  American  has  generally  lost  the  one 
and  learned  to  distrust  the  other  long  before  reaching  the 
earliest  decline  of  life ;  and  thenceforward  he  makes  little 
account  of  his  dinner,  and  dines  at  his  peril,  if  at  all.  I 
know  not  whether  my  countrymen  will  allow  me  to  tell 
them,  though  I  think  it  scarcely  too  much  to  affirm,  that 
on  this  side  of  the  water,  people  never  dine.  At  any 


SCO  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

rate,  abundantly  as  Nature  has  provided  us  with  most  of 
the  material  requisites,  the  highest  possible  dinner  ha3 
never  yet  been  eaten  in  America.  It  is  the  consummate 
flower  of  civilization  and  refinement;  and  our  inability 
to  produce  it,  or  to  appreciate  its  admirable  beauty,  if  a 
happy  inspiration  should  bring  it  into  bloom,  marks 
fatally  the  limit  of  culture  which  we  have  attained. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  the  mob  of  cul 
tivated  Englishmen  know  how  to  dine  in  this  elevated 
sense.  The  unpolishable  ruggedness  of  the  national 
character  is  still  an  impediment  to  them,  even  in  that 
particular  line  where  they  are  best  qualified  to  excel. 
Though  often  present  at  good  men's  feasts,  I  remember 
only  a  single  dinner,  which,  while  lamentably  conscious 
that  many  of  its  higher  excellences  were  thrown  away 
upon  me,  I  yet  could  feel  to  be  a  perfect  work  of  art.  It 
could  not,  without  unpardonable  coarseness,  be  styled  a 
matter  of  animal  enjoyment,  because,  out  of  the  very  per 
fection  of  that  lower  bliss,  there  had  arisen  a  dream-like 
development  of  spiritual  happiness.  As  in  the  master 
pieces  of  painting  and  poetry,  there  was  a  something  in 
tangible,  a  final  deliciousness  that  only  fluttered  about 
vour  comprehension,  vanishing  whenever  you  tried  to 
letain  it,  and  compelling  you  to  recognize  it  by  faith 
..atb^T  than  sense.  It  seemed  as  if  a  diviner  set  of 
<ense«,  were  requisite,  and  had  been  partly  supplied,  for 
the  special  fruition  of  this  banquet,  and  that  the  guests 
around  the  U.Me  (only  eight  in  number)  were  becoming 
so  educated,  polished,  and  softened,  by  the  delicate  .influ 
ences  of  what  they  ate  and  drank,  as  to  be  now  a  little 
more  than  mortal  for  the  nonce.  And  there  was  that 
gentle,  delicious  sadness,  too,  which  we  find  in  the  very 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  3G1 

summit  of  our  most  exquisite  enjoyments,  and  feel  it  a 
charm  beyond  all  the  gayety  through  which  it  keeps 
breathing  its  undertone.  In  the  present  case,  it  was 
worth  a  heavier  sigh,  to  reflect  that  such  a  festal  achieve 
ment,  —  the  production  of  so  much  art,  skill,  fancy,  in- 
rention,  and  perfect  taste,  —  the  growth  of  all  the  ages, 
vhich  appeared  to  have  been  ripening  for  this  hour,  since 
nan  first  began  to  eat  and  to  moisten  his  food  with  wine, 
--must  lavish  its  happiness  upon  so  brief  a  moment, 
«uen  other  beautiful  things  can  be  made  a  joy  forever. 
\  ev  a  dinner  like  this  is  no  better  than  we  can  get,  any 
day,  at  the  rejuvenescent  Cornhill  Coffee-House,  unless 
the  \rnole  man,  with  soul,  intellect,  and  stomach,  is  ready 
to  appicciate  it,  and  unless,  moreover,  there  is  such  a 
harmony  in  all  the  circumstances  and  accompaniments, 
and  especially  such  a  pitch  of  well-according  minds,  that 
nothing  snaUt  jar  rudely  against  the  guest's  thoroughly 
awakened  sensibilities.  The  world,  and  especially  our 
part  of  it,  bein^c  the  rough,  ill-assorted,  and  tumultuous 
place  we  find  it,  v  beefsteak  is  about  as  good  as  any  other 
dinner. 

The  foregoibg  reminiscence,  however,  has  drawn  me 
aside  from  the  main  object  of  my  sketch,  in  which  I  pur 
posed  to  give  a  slight  idea  of  those  public,  or  partially 
public  banquets,  the  custom  of  which  so  thoroughly  pre 
vails  among  the  English  people,  that  nothing  is  ever 
decided  upon,  in  matters  of  peace  or  war,  until  they 
have  chewed  upon  it  in  the  shape  of  roast-beef,  and 
talked  it  fully  over  in  their  cups.  Nor  are  these  fes 
tivities  merely  occasional,  but  of  stated  recurrence  in  all 
considerable  municipalities  and  associated  bodies.  The 
most  ancient  times  appear  to  have  been  as  familiar  with 


862  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

them  as  the  Englishmen  of  to-day.  In  many  of  the  old 
English  towns,  you  find  some  stately  Gothic  hall  or 
chamber  in  which  the  Mayor  and  other  authorities  of  the 
place  have  long  held  their  sessions  ;  and  always,  in  con 
venient  contiguity,  there  is  a  dusky  kitchen,  with  an  im 
mense  fireplace  where  an  ox  might  lie  roasting  at  his 
ease,  though  the  less  gigantic  scale  of  modern  cookery 
may  now  have  permitted  the  cobwebs  to  gather  in  its 
chimney.  St.  Mary's  Hall,  m  Coventry,  is  so  good  a 
specimen  of  an  ancient  banqueting-room,  that  perhaps  I 
may  profitably  devote  a  page  or  two  to  the  description 
of  it. 

In  a  narrow  street,  opposite  to  St.  Michael's  Church, 
one  of  the  three  famous  spires  of  Coventry,  you  behold 
a  mediaeval  edifice,  in  the  basement  of  which  is  such  a 
venerable  and  now  deserted  kitchen  as  I  have  above 
alluded  to,  and,  on  the  same  level,  a  cellar,  with  low 
stone  pillars  and  intersecting  arches,  like  the  crypt,  of  a 
cathedral.  Passing  up  a  well-worn  staircase,  the  oaken 
balustrade  of  which  is  as  black  as  ebony,  you  enter  the 
fine  old  hall,  some  sixty  feet  in  length,  and  broad  and 
lofty  in  proportion.  It  is  lighted  by  six  windows  of 
modern  stained  glass,  on  one  side,  and  by  the  immense 
and  magnificent  arch  of  another  window  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  room,  its  rich  and  ancient  panes  constituting  a 
genuine  historical  piece,  in  which  are  represented  some 
of  the  kingly  personages  of  old  times,  with  their  heraldic 
blazonries.  Notwithstanding  the  colored  light  thus  thrown 
into  the  hall,  and  though  it  was  noonday  when  I- last  saw 
it,  the  panelling  of  black  oak,  and  some  faded  tapestry 
that  hung  round  the  walls,  together  with  the  cloudy  •*  iult 
of  the  roof  above,  made  a  gloom,  which  the  richnesr  v-  ^ 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  363 

illuminated  into  more  appreciable  effect.  The  tapestry  ib 
wrought  with  figures  in  the  dress  of  Henry  VI.'s  time, 
(which  is  the  date  of  the  hall,)  and  is  regarded  by  anti 
quaries  as  authentic  evidence  both  for  the  costume  of  that 
epoch,  and,  I  believe,  for  the  actual  portraiture  of  men 
known  in  history.  They  are  as  colorless  as  ghosts,  how 
ever,  and  vanish  drearily  into  the  old  stitch-work  of  their 
substance  when  you  try  to  make  them  out.  Coats-of- 
arms  were  formerly  emblazoned  all  round  the  hall,  but 
have  been  almost  rubbed  out  by  people  hanging  their 
overcoats  against  them  or  by  women  with  dishclouts 
and  scrubbing-brushes,  obliterating  hereditary  glories  in 
their  blind  hostility  to  dust  and  spiders'  webs.  Full- 
length  portraits  of  several  English  kings,  Charles  IT. 
being  the  earliest,  hang  on  the  walls  ;  and  on  the  dais,  or 
elevated  part  of  the  floor,  stands  an  antique  chair  of 
state,  which  several  royal  characters  are  traditionally 
said  to  have  occupied  while  feasting  here  with  their 
loyal  subjects  of  Coventry.  It  is  roomy  enough  for  a 
person  of  kingly  bulk,  or  even  two  such,  but  angular  and 
uncomfortable,  reminding  me  of  the  oaken  settles  which 
used  to  be  seen  in  old-fashioned  New  England  kitchens. 

Overhead,  supported  by  a  self-sustaining  power,  with 
out  the  aid  of  a  single  pillar,  is  the  original  ceiling  of 
oak,  precisely  similar  in  shape  to  the  roof  of  a  barn,  with 
ill  the  beams  and  rafters  plainly  to  be  seen.  At  the  re 
mote  height  of  sixty  feet,  you  hardly  discern  that  they 
are  carved  with  figures  of  angels  and  doubtless  many 
other  devices,  of  which  the  admirable  Gothic  art  is 
wasted  in  the  duskiness  that  has  so  long  been  brood 
ing  there.  Over  the  entrance  rf  the  hall,  opposite  tli« 
great  arched  window,  the  party-colored  radiance  of  which 


364  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

glimmers  faintly  through  the  interval,  is  a  gallerj  foi 
minstrels ;  and  a  row  of  ancient  suits  of  armor  is  sus 
pended  from  its  balustrade.  It  impresses  me,  too,  (for, 
having  gone  so  far,  I  would  fain  leave  nothing  un 
touched  upon,)  that  I  remember,  somewhere  about  these 
venerable  precincts,  a  picture  of  the  Countess  Godiva  on 
horseback,  in  which  the  artist  has  been  so  niggardly  of 
that  illustrious  lady's  hair,  that,  if  she  had  no  ampler 
garniture,  there  was  certainly  much  need  for  the  good 
people  of  Coventry  to  shut  their  eyes.  After  all  my 
pains,  I  fear  that  I  have  made  but  a  poor  hand  at  the 
description,  as  regards  a  transference  of  the  scene  from 
my  own  mind  to  the  reader's.  It  gave  me  a  most  vivid 
idea  of  antiquity  that  had  been  very  little  tampered 
with  ;  insomuch  that,  if  a  group  of  steel-clad  knights  had 
come  clanking  through  the  doorway,  and  a  bearded  and 
beruffed  old  figure  had  handed  in  a  stately  dame,  rustling 
in  gorgeous  robes  of  a  long-forgotten  fashion,  unveiling  a 
face  of  beauty  somewhat  tarnished  in  the  mouldy  tomb, 
yet  stepping  majestically  to  the  trill  of  harp  and  viol 
from  the  minstrels'  gallery,  while  the  rusty  armor  re 
sponded  with  a  hollow  ringing  sound  beneath,  —  why,  I 
should  have  felt  that  these  shadows,  once  so  familiar  with 
the  spot,  had  a  better  right  in  St.  Mary's  Hall  than  I,  a 
stranger  from  a  far  country  which  has  no  Past.  But  the 
moral  of  the  foregoing  description  is  to  show  how  tena 
ciously  this  love  of  pompous  dinners,  this  reverence  for 
dinner  as  a  sacred  institution,  has  caught  hold  of  the  Eng 
lish  character ;  since,  from  the  earliest  recognizable  pe 
riod,  we  find  them  building  their  civic  banqueting-halls  aa 
magnificently  as  their  palaces  or  cathedrals. 

I  know  not  whether  the  hall  just  described  is  now  used 


CITiC  BANQUETS.  365 

for  festive  purposes,  but  others  of  similar  antiquity  and 
splendor  still  are.  For  example,  there  is  Barber  Sur 
geons'  Hall,  in  London,  a  very  fine  old  room,  adorned 
with  admirably  carved  wood-work  on  the  ceiling  and 
walls.  Jt  is  also  enriched  with  Holbein's  masterpiece, 
representing  a  grave  assemblage  of  barbers  and  sur 
geons,  all  portraits,  (with  such  extensive  beards  that 
methinks  one  half  of  the  company  might  have  been 
profitably  occupied  in  trimming  the  other,)  kneeling  be 
fore  King  Henry  VIII.  Sir  Robert  Peel  is  said  to  have 
offered  a  thousand  pounds  for  the  liberty  of  cutting  out 
one  of  the  heads  from  this  picture,  he  conditioning  to 
have  a  perfect  fac-simile  painted  in.  The  room  has  many 
other  pictures  of  distinguished  members  of  the  company 
in  long-past  times,  and  of  some  of  the  monarchs  and 
statesmen  of  England,  all  darkened  with  age,  but  dark 
ened  into  such  ripe  magnificence  as  only  age  could  be 
stow.  It  is  not  my  design  to  inflict  any  more  specimens 
of  ancient  hall-painting  on  the  reader ;  but  it  may  be 
worth  while  to  touch  upon  other  modes  of  stateliness  that 
still  survive  in  these  time-honored  civic  feasts,  where 
there  appears  to  be  a  singular  assumption  of  dignity  and 
solemn  pomp  by  respectable  citizens  who  would  never 
dream  of  claiming  any  privilege  of  rank  outside  of  their 
own  sphere.  Thus,  I  saw  two  caps  of  state  for  the 
warden  and  junior  warden  of  the  company,  caps  of  silver 
(real  coronets  or  crowns,  indeed,  for  these  city-grandees) 
wrought  in  open-work  and  lined  with  crimson  velvet.  In 
a  strong-closet,  opening  from  the  hall,  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  rich  plate  to  furnish  forth  the  banquet-table,  com 
prising  hundreds  of  forks  and  spoons,  a  vast  silver  punch 
bowl,  the  gift  of  some  jolly  king  or  other,  and?  besides  a 


366  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

multitude  of  less  noticeable  vessels,  two  loving-cups, 
very  elaborately  wrought  in  silver  gilt,  one  presented  by 
Henry  VIII.,  the  other  by  Charles  II.  These  cups,  in 
cluding  the  covers  and  pedestals,  are  very  large  and 
weighty,  although  the  bowl-part  would  hardly  contain 
more  than  half  a  pint  of  wine,  which,  when  the  custom 
was  first  established,  each  guest  was  probably  expected 
to  drink  off  at  a  draught.  In  passing  them  from  hand 
to  hand  adown  a  long  table  of  compotators,  there  is  a 
peculiar  ceremony  which  I  may  hereafter  have  occasion 
to  describe.  Meanwhile,  if  I  might  assume  such  a  lib 
erty,  I  should  be  glad  to  invite  the  reader  to  the  official 
dinner-table  of  his  Worship,  the  Mayor,  at  a  large  Eng- 
ligh  seaport  where  I  spent  several  years. 

The  Mayor's  dinner-parties  occur  as  often  as  once  a 
fortnight,  and,  inviting  his  guests  by  fifty  or  sixty  at  a 
time,  his  Worship  probably  assembles  at  his  board  most 
of  the  eminent  citizens  and  distinguished  personages  of 
the  town  and  neighborhood  more  than  once  during  his 
year's  incumbency,  and  very  much,  no  doubt,  to  the  pro 
motion  of  good  feeling  among  individuals  of  opposite 
parties  and  diverse  pursuits  in  life.  A  miscellaneous 
party  of  Englishmen  can  always  find  more  comfortable 
ground  to  meet  upon  than  as  many  Americans,  their  dif 
ferences  of  opinion  being  incomparably  less  radical  than 
ours,  and  it  being  the  sincerest  wish  of  all  their  hearts, 
whether  they  call  themselves  Liberals  or  what  not,  that 
nothing  in  this  world  shall  ever  be  greatly  altered  from 
what  it  has  been  and  is.  Thus  there  is  seldom  such  a 
virulence  of  political  hostility  that  it  may  not  be  dis 
solved  in  a  glass  or  two  of  wine,  without  making  the 
good  liquor  any  more  dry  01  bitter  than  accords  with 
English  taste. 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  3G7 

The  first  dinner  of  this  kind  at  which  I  had  the  honor 
lv>  be  present  took  place  during  assize-time,  and  included 
among  the  guests  the  judges  and  the  prominent  members 
of  the  bar.  Reaching  the  Town  Hall  at  seven  o'clock,  I 
communicated  my  name  to  one  of  several  splendidly 
dressed  footmen,  and  he  repeated  it  to  another  on  the 
first  staircase,  by  whom  it  was  passed  to  a  third,  and 
thence  to  a  fourth  at  the  door  of  the  reception-room,  los 
ing  all  resemblance  to  the  original  sound  in  the  course 
of  these  transmissions  ;  so  that  I  had  the  advantage  of 
making  my  entrance  in  the  character  of  a  stranger,  not 
only  to  the  whole  company,  but  to  myself  as  well.  His 
Worship,  however,  kindly  recognized  me,  and  put  me  on 
speaking-terms  with  two  or  three  gentlemen,  whom  I 
found  very  affable,  and  all  the  more  hospitably  attentive 
on  the  score  of  my  nationality.  It  is  very  singular  how 
kind  an  Englishman  will  almost  invariably  be  to  an  in 
dividual  American,  without  ever  bating  a  jot  of  his  preju 
dice  against  the  American  character  in  the  lump.  My 
new  acquaintances  took  evident  pains  to  put  me  at  my 
ease ;  and,  in  requital  of  their  good-nature,  I  soon  began 
to  look  round  at  the  general  company  in  a  critical  spirit, 
making  my  crude  observations  apart,  and  drawing  silent 
inferences,  of  the  correctness  of  which  I  should  not  have 
been  half  so  well  satisfied  a  year  afterwacds  as  at  that 
moment. 

There  were  two  judges  present,  a  good  many  lawyers, 
and  a  few  officers  of  the  army  in  uniform.  The  other 
guests  seemed  to  be  principally  of  the  mercantile  class, 
and  among  them  was  a  ship-owner  from  Nova  Scotia, 
wi;h  whom  I  coalesced  a  little,  inasmuch  as  we  were 
born  with  the  same  sky  over  our  heads,  and  an  unbroken 


368  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

continuity  of  soil  between  his  abode  and  mine.  Them 
was  one  old  gentleman,  whose  character  I  never  made 
out,  with  powdered  hair,  clad  in  black  breeches  and  silk 
stockings,  and  wearing  a  rapier  at  his  side  ;  otherwise, 
with  the  exception  of  the  military  uniforms,  there  was 
little  or  no  pretence  of  official  costume.  It  being  the 
first  considerable  assemblage  of  Englishmen  that  I  had 
seen,  my  honest  impression  about  them  was,  that  they 
were  a  heavy  and  homely  set  of  people,  with  a  remark 
able  roughness  of  aspect  and  behavior,  not  repulsive,  but 
beneath  which  it  required  more  familiarity  with  the  na 
tional  character  than  I  then  possessed  always  to  detect 
the  good  breeding  of  a  gentleman.  Being  generally  mid 
dle-aged,  or  still  farther  advanced,  they  were  by  no  meanj 
graceful  in  figure  ;  for  the  comeliness  of  the  youthful 
Englishman  rapidly  diminishes  with  years,  his  body  ap 
pearing  to  grow  longer,  his  legs  to  abbreviate  themselves, 
and  his  stomach  to  assume  the  dignified  prominence  which 
justly  belongs  to  that  metropolis  of  his  system.  His  face 
(what  with  the  acridity  of  the  atmosphere,  ale  at  lunch, 
wine  at  dinner,  and  a  well-digested  abundance  of  succu 
lent  food)  gets  red  and  mottled,  and  develop.0  at  least  one 
additional  chin,  with  a  promise  of  more  ;  so  that,  finally, 
a  stranger  recognizes  his  animal  part  at  the  most  super 
ficial  glance,  but  must  take  time  and  a  little  pains  to  dis 
cover  the  intellectual.  Comparing  him  with  an  American, 
I  really  thought  that  our  national  paleness  and  lean  habit 
of  flesh  gave  us  greatly  the  advantage  in  an  aesthetic 
point  of  view.  It  seemed  to  me,  moreover,  that  the  Eng 
lish  tailor  had  not  done  so  much  as  he  might  and  ought 
for  these  heavy  figures,  but  had  gone  on  wilfully  exag 
gerating  their  uncouthness  by  the  roominess  of  their  gar- 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  369 

menta ;  he  had  evidently  no  idea  of  accuracy  of  fit,  and 
smartness  was  entirely  out  of  his  line.  But,  to  be  quite 
open  with  the  reader,  I  afterwards  learned  to  think  that 
this  aforesaid  tailor  has  a  deeper  art  than  his  brethren 
among  ourselves,  knowing  how  to  dress  his  customers 
with  such  individual  propriety  that  they  look  as  if  they 
were  born  in  their  clothes,  the  fit  being  to  the  charac 
ter  rather  than  the  form.  If  you  make  an  Englishman 
smart,  (unless  he  be  a  very  exceptional  one,  of  whom  I 
have  seen  a  few,)  you  make  him  a  monster ;  his  best 
aspect  is  that  of  ponderous  respectability. 

To  make  an  end  of  these  first  impressions,  I  fancied 
that  not  merely  the  Suffolk  bar,  but  the  bar  of  any  in 
land  county  in  New  England,  might  show  a  set  of  thin- 
visaged  men,  looking  wretchedly  worn,  sallow,  deeply 
wrinkled  across  the  forehead,  and  grimly  furrowed  about 
the  mouth,  with  whom  these  heavy-cheeked  English 
lawyers,  slow-paced  and  fat-witted  as  they  must  needs 
be,  would  stand  very  little  chance  in  a  professional  con 
test.  How  that  matter  might  turn  out,  I  am  unquali 
fied  to  decide.  But  I  state  these  results  of  my  earliest 
glimpses  at  Englishmen,  not  for  what  they  are  worth,  but 
because  I  ultimately  gave  them  up  as  worth  little  or 
nothing.  In  course  of  time,  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  Englishmen  of  all  ages  are  a  rather  good-looking 
people,  dress  in  admirable  taste  from  their  own  point  of 
view,  and,  under  a  surface  never  silken  to  the  touch,  have 
a  refinement  of  manners  too  thorough  and  genuine  to  be 
thought  of  as  a  separate  endowment,  —  that  is  to  say,  if 
the  individual  himself  be  a  man  of  station,  and  has  had 
gentlemen  for  his  father  and  grandfather.  The  sturdy 
Anglo-Saxon  nature  does  not  refine  itself  short  of  the 
24 


370  CIVIC   BANQUETS. 

third  generation.  The  tradesmen,  too,  and  all  othei 
classes,  have  their  own  proprieties.  The  only  value  of 
my  criticisms,  therefore,  lay  in  their  exemplifying  the 
proneness  of  a  traveller  to  measure  one  people  by  the 
distinctive  characteristics  of  another,  —  as  English  writers 
invariably  measure  us,  and  take  upon  themselves  to  be 
disgusted  accordingly,  instead  of  trying  to  find  out  some 
principle  of  beauty  with  which  we  may  be  in  conformity. 
In  due  time  we  were  summoned  to  the  table,  and  went 
thither  in  no  solemn  procession,  but  with  a  good  deal  of 
jostling,  thrusting  behind,  and  scrambling  for  places  when 
•we  reached  our  destination.  The  legal  gentlemen,  I  sus 
pect,  were  responsible  for  this  indecorous  zeal,  which 
I  never  afterwards  remarked  in  a  similar  party.  The 
dining-hall  was  of  noble  size,  and,  like  the  other  rooms 
of  the  suite,  was  gorgeously  painted  and  gilded  and  bril 
liantly  illuminated.  There  was  a  splendid  table-service, 
and  a  noble  array  of  footmen,  some  of  them  in  plain 
clothes,  and  others  wearing  the  town-livery,  richly  deco 
rated  with  gold  lace,  and  themselves  excellent  specimens 
of  the  blooming  young  manhood  of  Britain.  When  we 
were  fairly  seated,  it  was  certainly  an  agreeable  spectacle 
to  look  up  and  down  the  long  vista  of  earnest  faces,  and 
behold  them  so  resolute,  so  conscious  that  there  was  an 
important  business  in  hand,  and  so  determined  to  be 
equal  to  the  occasion.  Indeed,  Englishman  or  not,  I 
hardly  know  what  can  be  prettier  than  a  snow-white 
table-cloth,  a  huge  heap  of  flowers  as  a  central  decora 
tion,  bright  silver,  rich  china,  crystal  glasses,  decanters  of 
Sherry  at  due  intervals,  a  French  roll  and  an  artistically 
folded  napkin  at  each  plate,  all  that  airy  portion  of  a  ban 
quet,  in  short,  that  comes  before  the  first  mouthful,  the 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  371 

whole  illuminated  by  a  blaze  of  artificial  light,  without 
which  a  dinner  of  made-dishes  looks  spectral,  and  the 
simplest  viands  are  the  best.  Printed  bills-of-fare  were 
distributed,  representing  an  abundant  feast,  no  part  of 
which  appeared  on  the  table  until  called  for  in  separate 
plates.  I  have  entirely  forgotten  what  it  was,  but  deem 
it  no  great  matter,  inasmuch  as  there  is  a  pervading  com 
monplace  and  identicalness  in  the  composition  of  exten 
sive  dinners,  on  account  of  the  impossibility  of  supply  big 
a  hundred  guests  with  anything  particularly  delicate  or 
rare.  It  was  suggested  to  me  that  certain  juicy  old  gen 
tlemen  had  a  private  understanding  what  to  call  for,  and 
that  it  would  be  good  policy  in  a  stranger  to  follow  in 
their  footsteps  through  the  feast.  I  did  not  care  to  do  so, 
however,  because,  like  Sancho  Panza's  dip  out  of  Cama- 
cho's  caldron,  any  sort  of  potluck  at  such  a  table  would 
be  sure  to  suit  my  purpose  ;  so  I  chose  a  dish  or  two  on 
my  own  judgment,  and,  getting  through  my  labors  be 
times,  had  great  pleasure  in  seeing  the  Englishmen  toil 
onward  to  the  end. 

They  drank  rather  copiously,  too,  though  wisely ;  for  I 
observed  that  they  seldom  took  Hock,  and  let  the  Cham 
pagne  bubble  slowly  away  out  of  the  goblet,  solacing 
themselves  with  Sherry,  but  tasting  it  warily  before 
bestowing  their  final  confidence.  Their  taste  in  wines, 
however,  did  not  seem  so  exquisite,  and  certainly  was  not 
so  various,  as  that  to  which  many  Americans  pretend. 
This  foppery  of  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  rare  vin 
tages  does  not  suit  a  sensible  Englishman,  as  he  is  very 
much  in  earnest  about  his  wines,  and  adopts  one  or  two 
as  his  life-long  friends,  seldom  exchanging  them  for  any 
Delilahs  of  a  moment,  and  reaping  the  reward  of  his  con- 


£72  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

Btancy  in  an  unimpaired  stomach,  and  only  so  much  gout 
as  he  deems  wholesome  and  desirable.  Knowing  well 
the  measure  of  his  powers,  he  is  not  apt  to  fill  his  glass 
too  often.  Society,  indeed,  would  hardly  tolerate  habit 
ual  imprudences  of  that  kind,  though,  in  my  opinion,  the 
Englishmen  now  upon  the  stage  could  carry  off  their 
three  bottles,  at  need,  with  as  steady  a  gait  as  any  of 
their  forefathers.  It  is  not  so  very  long  since  the  three- 
bottle  heroes  sank  finally  under  the  table.  It  may  be  (at 
least,  I  should  be  glad  if  it  were  true)  that  there  was  an 
occult  sympathy  between  our  temperance  reform,  now 
somewhat  in  abeyance,  and  the  almost  simultaneous  dis 
appearance  of  hard-drinking  among  the  respectable  classes 
in  England.  I  remember  a  middle-aged  gentleman  tell 
ing  me  (in  illustration  of  the  very  slight  importance 
attached  to  breaches  of  temperance  within  the  memory 
of  men  not  yet  old)  that  he  had  seen  a  certain  magis 
trate,  Sir  John  Linkwater,  or  Drinkwater,  —  but  I  think 
the  jolly  old  knight  could  hardly  have  staggered  under  so 
perverse  a  misnomer  as  this  last,  —  while  sitting  on  the 
magisterial  bench,  pull  out  a  crown-piece  and  hand  it  to 
the  clerk.  "  Mr.  Clerk,"  said  Sir  John,  as  if  it  were  the 
most  indifferent  fact  in  the  world,  "  I  was  drunk  last  night. 
There  are  my  five  shillings." 

During  the  dinner,  I  had  a  good  deal  of  pleasant  con 
versation  with  the  gentlemen  on  either  side  of  me.  One 
of  them,  a  lawyer,  expatiated  with  great  unction  on  the 
pocial  standing  of  the  judges.  Representing  the  dignity 
and  authority  of  the  Crown,  they  take  precedence,  during 
assize-time,  of  the  highest  military  men  in  the  kingdom, 
of  the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  county,  of  the  Archbishops, 
of  the  royal  Dukes,  and  even  of  the  Prince  of  Wales. 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  37J 

For  the  nonce,  they  are  the  greatest  men  in  England. 
With  a  glow  of  professional  complacency  that  amounted 
to  enthusiasm,  my  friend  assured  me,  that,  in  case  of  a 
royal  dinner,  a  judge,  if  actually  holding  an  assize,  would 
be  expected  to  offer  his  arm  and  take  the  Queen  herself 
to  the  table.  Happening  to  be  in  company  with  some 
)f  these  elevated  personages,  on  subsequent  occasions,  it 
xppeared  to  me  that  the  judges  are  fully  conscious  of 
their  paramount  claims  to  respect,  and  take  rather  more 
pains  to  impress  them  on  their  ceremonial  inferiors  than 
men  of  high  hereditary  rank  are  apt  to  do.  Bishops,  if 
it  be  not  irreverent  to  say  so,  are  sometimes  marked  by  a 
similar  characteristic.  Dignified  position  is  so  sweet  to 
an  Englishman,  that  he  needs  to  be  born  in  it,  and  to  feel 
it  thoroughly  incorporated  with  his  nature  from  its  orig 
inal  germ,  in  order  to  keep  him  from  flaunting  it  obtru 
sively  in  the  faces  of  innocent  bystanders. 

My  companion  on  the  other  side  was  a  thick-set,  middle- 
aged  man,  uncouth  in  manners,  and  ugly  where  none  were 
handsome,  with  a  dark,  roughly  hewn  visage,  that  looked 
grim  in  repose,  and  seemed  to  hold  within  itself  the  ma 
chinery  of  a  very  terrific  frown.  He  ate  with  resolute 
appetite,  and  let  slip  few  opportunities  of  imbibing  what 
ever  liquids  happened  to  be  passing  by.  I  was  meditat 
ing  in  what  way  this  grisly  featured  table-fellow  might 
most  safely  be  accosted,  when  he  turned  to  me  with  a 
Burly  sort  of  kindness,  and  invited  me  to  take  a  glass  of 
wine.  We  then  began  a  conversation  that  abounded,  on 
his  part,  with  sturdy  sense,  and,  somehow  or  other,  brought 
me  closer  to  him  than  I  had  yet  stood  to  an  Englishman. 
I  should  hardly  have  taken  him  to  be  an  educated  man, 
certainly  not  a  scholar  of  accurate  training ;  and  yet  he 


374  CIVIC   BANQUETS. 

seemed  to  have  all  the  resources  of  education  and  trained 
intellectual  power  at  command.  My  fresh  Americanism, 
and  watchful  observation  of  English  characteristics,  ap 
peared  either  to  interest  or  amuse  him,  or  perhaps  both. 
Under  the  mollifying  influences  of  abundance  of  meat  and 
drink,  he  grew  very  gracious,  (not  that  I  ought  to  use 
such  a  phrase  to  describe  his  evidently  genuine  good-will,) 
and  by  and  by  expressed  a  wish  for  further  acquaintance, 
asking  me  to  call  at  his  rooms  in  London  and  inquire  for 
Sergeant  Wilkins,  —  throwing  out  the  name  forcibly,  as 
if  he  had  no  occasion  to  be  ashamed  of  it.  I  remembered 
Dean  Swift's  retort  to  Sergeant  Bettesworth  on  a  similar 
announcement,  —  "  Of  what  regiment,  pray,  Sir  ?  "  —  and 
fancied  that  the  same  question  might  not  have  been  quite 
amiss,  if  applied  to  the  rugged  individual  at  my  side.  But 
I  heard  of  him  subsequently  as  one  of  the  prominent  men 
at  the  English  bar,  a  rough  customer,  and  a  terribly  strong 
champion  in  criminal  cases ;  and  it  caused  me  more  re 
gret  than  might  have  been  expected,  on  so  slight  an  ac 
quaintanceship,  when,  not  long  afterwards,  I  saw  his  death 
announced  in  the  newspapers.  Not  rich  in  attractive  qual 
ities,  he  possessed,  I  think,  the  most  attractive  one  of 
all,  —  thorough  manhood. 

After  the  cloth  was  removed,  a  goodly  group  of  decan 
ters  were  set  before  the  Mayor,  who  sent  them  forth  on 
their  outward  voyage,  full  freighted  with  Port,  Sherry, 
Madeira,  and  Claret,  of  which  excellent  liquors,  me- 
thought,  the  latter  found  least  acceptance  among  the 
guests.  When  every  man  had  filled  his  glass,  his  Wor- 
ehip  stood  up  and  proposed  a  toast.  It  was,  of  course, 
"  Our  gracious  Sovereign,"  or  words  to  that  effect ;  and 
immediately  a  band  of  musicians,  whose  preliminary 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  375 

toolings  and  thrummings  I  had  already  heard  behind  me, 
struck  up  "  God  save  the  Queen,"  and  the  whole  company 
rose  with  one  impulse  to  assist  in  singing  that  famous  na 
tional  anthem.  It  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  had 
ever  seen  a  body  of  men,  or  even  a  single  man,  under  the 
active  influence  of  the  sentiment  of  Loyalty  ;  for,  though 
we  call  ourselves  loyal  to  our  country  and  institutions, 
and  prove  it  by  our  readiness  to  shed  blood  and  sacrifice 
life  in  their  behalf,  still  the  principle  is  as  cold  and  hard, 
in  an  American  bosom,  as  the  steel  spring  that  puts  in 
motion  a  powerful  machinery.  In  the  Englishman's  sys 
tem,  a  force  similar  to  that  of  our  steel  spring  is  generated 
by  the  warm  throbbings  of  human  hearts.  He  clothes 
our  bare  abstraction  in  flesh  and  blood,  —  at  present,  in 
the  flesh  and  blood  of  a  woman,  —  and  manages  to  com 
bine  love,  awe,  and  intellectual  reverence,  all  in  one  emo 
tion,  and  to  embody  his  mother,  his  wife,  his  children,  the 
whole  idea  of  kindred,  in  a  single  person,  and  make  her 
the  representative  of  his  country  and  its  laws.  We 
Americans  smile  superior,  as  I  did  at  the  Mayor's  table ; 
and  yet,  I  fancy,  we  lose  some  very  agreeable  titillations 
of  the  heart  in  consequence  of  our  proud  prerogative  of 
caring  no  more  about  our  President  than  for  a  man  of 
straw,  or  a  stuffed  scarecrow  straddling  in  a  cornfield. 

But,  to  say  the  truth,  the  spectacle  struck  me  rather 
ludicrously,  to  see  this  party  of  stout  middle-aged  and 
elderly  gentlemen,  in  the  fulness  of  meat  and  drink,  their 
ample  and  ruddy  faces  glistening  with  wine,  perspiration, 
and  enthusiasm,  rumbling  out  those  strange  old  stanzas 
from  the  very  bottom  of  their  hearts  and  stomachs,  which 
two  organs,  in  the  English  interior  arrangement,  lie  closer 
together  than  in  ours.  The  song  seemed  to  me  the  rud- 


376  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

est  old  ditty  in  the  world  ;  but  I  could  not  wonder  at  its 
universal  acceptance  and  indestructible  popularity,  con 
sidering  how  inimitably  it  expresses  the  national  faith 
and  feeling  as  regards  the  inevitable  righteousness  of 
England,  the  Almighty's  consequent  respect  and  partial 
ity  for  that  redoubtable  little  island,  and  His  presumed 
readiness  to  strengthen  its  defence  against  the  contuma 
cious  wickedness  and  knavery  of  all  other  principalities  or 
republics.  Tennyson  himself,  though  evidently  English 
to  the  very  last  prejudice,  could  not  write  half  so  good  a 
song  for  the  purpose.  Finding  that  the  entire  dinner- 
table  struck  in,  with  voices  of  every  pitch  between  rolling 
thunder  and  the  squeak  of  a  cart-wheel,  and  that  the 
strain  was  not  of  such  delicacy  as  to  be  much  hurt  by  the 
harshest  of  them,  I  determined  to  lend  my  own  assistance 
in  swelling  the  triumphant  roar.  It  seemed  but  a  proper 
courtesy  to  the  first  Lady  in  the  land,  whose  guest,  in  the 
largest  sense,  I  might  consider  myself.  Accordingly,  my 
first  tuneful  efforts  (and  probably  my  last,  for  I  purpose 
not  to  sing  any  more,  unless  it  be  "  Hail  Columbia  "  on 
the  restoration  of  the  Union)  were  poured  freely  forth  in 
honor  of  Queen  Victoria.  The  Sergeant  smiled  like  tho 
carved  head  of  a  Swiss  nut-cracker,  and  the  other  gen 
tlemen  in  my  neighborhood,  by  nods  and  gestures,  evinc 
ed  grave  approbation  of  so  suitable  a  tribute  to  English 
superiority  ;  and  we  finished  our  stave  and  sat  down  in 
an  extremely  happy  frame  of  mind. 

Other  toasts  followed  in  honor  of  the  great  institutions 
and  interests  of  the  country,  and  speeches  in  response  to 
each  were  made  by  individuals  whom  the  Mayor  desig 
nated  or  the  company  called  for.  None  of  them  im 
pressed  me  with  a  very  high  idea  of  English  postprandial 


CIVIC    BANQUETS.  377 

oratory.  It  is  inconceivable,  indeed,  what  ragged  and 
shapeless  utterances  most  Englishmen  are  satisfied  to 
give  vent  to,  without  attempting  anything  like  artistic 
shape,  but  clapping  on  a  patch  here  and  another  there> 
and  ultimately  getting  out  what  they  want  to  say,  and 
generally  with  a  result  of  sufficiently  good  sense,  but  in 
some  such  disorganized  mass  as  if  they  had  thrown  it  up 
rather  than  spoken  it.  It  seemed  to  me  that  this  was  almost 
as  much  by  choice  as  necessity.  An  Englishman,  ambitious 
of  public  favor,  should  not  be  too  smooth.  If  an  orator 
is  glib,  his  countrymen  distrust  him.  They  dislike  smart 
ness.  The  stronger  and  heavier  his  thoughts,  the  better, 
provided  there  be  an  element  of  commonplace  running 
through  them ;  and  any  rough,  yet  never  vulgar  force  of 
expression,  such  as  would  knock  an  opponent  down,  if  it 
hit  him,  only  it  must  not  be  too  personal,  is  altogether  to 
their  taste  ;  but  a  studied  neatness  of  language,  or  other 
such  superficial  graces,  they  cannot  abide.  They  do  not 
often  permit  a  man  to  make  himself  a  fine  orator  of 
malice  aforethought,  that  is,  unless  he  be  a  nobleman,  (as, 
for  example,  Lord  Stanley,  of  the  Derby  family,)  who, 
as  an  hereditary  legislator  and  necessarily  a  public  speaker, 
is  bound  to  remedy  a  poor  natural  delivery  in  the  best 
way  he  can.  On  the  whole,  I  partly  agree  with  them, 
and,  if  I  cared  for  any  oratory  whatever,  should  be  as 
likely  to  applaud  theirs  as  our  own.  When  an  English 
speaker  sits  down,  you  feel  that  you  have  been  listening 
to  a  real  man,  and  not  to  an  actor ;  his  sentiments  have 
a  wholesome  earth-smell  in  them,  though,  very  likely,  this 
apparent  naturalness  is  as  much  an  art  as  what  we  ex 
pend  in  rounding  a  sentence  or  elaborating  a  peroration. 
It  is  one  good  effect  of  this  inartificial  style,  that  no- 


S78  CIVIC    BANQUETS. 

body  in  England  seems  to  feel  any  shyness  about  shovel* 
ling  the  untrimmed  and  untrimmable  ideas  out  of  hi* 
mind  for  the  benefit  of  an  audience.  At  least,  nobody 
did  on  the  occasion  now  in  hand,  except  a  poor  little 
Major  of  Artillery,  who  responded  for  the  Army  in  s 
thin,  quavering  voice,  with  a  terribly  hesitating  trickle  of 
fragmentary  ideas,  and,  I  question  not,  would  rather  have 
been  bayoneted  in  front  of  his  batteries  than  to  have  said 
a  word.  Not  his  own  mouth,  but  the  cannon's,  was  this 
poor  Major's  proper  organ  of  utterance. 

While  I  was  thus  amiably  occupied  in  criticising  my 
fellow-guests,  the  Mayor  had  got  up  to  propose  another 
toast ;  and  listening  rather  inattentively  to  the  first  sen 
tence  or  two,  I  soon  became  sensible  of  a  drift  in  his 
Worship's  remarks  that  made  me  glance  apprehensively 
towards  Sergeant  Wilkins.  "  Yes,"  grumbled  that  gruff 
personage,  shoving  a  decanter  of  Port  towards  me,  "  it  is 
your  turn  next " ;  and  seeing  in  my  face,  I  suppose,  the 
consternation  of  a  wholly  unpractised  orator,  he  kindly 
added,  —  "  It  is  nothing.  A  mere  acknowledgment  will 
answer  the  purpose.  The  less  you  say,  the  better  they 
will  like  it."  That  being  the  case,  I  suggested  that  per 
haps  they  would  like  it  best  if  I  said  nothing  at  all.  But 
the  Sergeant  shook  his  head.  Now,  on  first  receiving 
the  Mayor's  invitation  to  dinner,  it  had  occurred  to  me 
that  I  might  possibly  be  brought  into  my  present  predica 
ment  ;  but  I  had  dismissed  the  idea  from  my  mind  as  too 
disagreeable  to  be  entertained,  and,  moreover,  as  so  alien 
from  my  disposition  and  character  that  Fate  surely  could 
not  keep  such  a  misfortune  in  store  for  me.  If  nothing 
else  prevented,  an  earthquake  or  the  crack  of  doom  would 
certainly  interfere  before  I  need  rise  to  speak.  Yet  here 


CIVIC    BANQUETS  379 

was  the  Major  getting  on  inexorably,  —  and,  indeed,  J 
heartily  wished  that  he  might  got  on  and  on  forever,  and 
of  his  wordy  wanderings  find  no  end. 

If  the  gentle  reader,  my  kindest  friend  and  closest  con 
fidant,  deigns  to  desire  it,  I  can  impart  to  him  my  own 
experience  as  a  public  speaker  quite  as  indifferently  as  if 
it  concerned  another  person.  Indeed,  it  does  concert 
another,  or  a  mere  spectral  phenomenon,  for  it  was  not  J, 
in  my  proper  and  natural  self,  that  sat  there  at  table  or 
subsequently  rose  to  speak.  At  the  moment,  then,  if  the 
choice  had  been  offered  me  whether  the  Mayor  should  let 
off  a  speech  at  my  head  or  a  pistol,  I  should  unhesitat 
ingly  have  taken  the  latter  alternative.  I  had  really 
nothing  to  say,  not  an  idea  in  my  head,  nor,  which  was  a 
great  deal  worse,  any  flowing  words  or  embroidered  sen 
tences  in  which  to  dress  out  that  empty  Nothing,  and  give 
it  a  cunning  aspect  of  intelligence,  such  as  might  last  the 
poor  vacuity  the  little  time  it  had  to  live.  But  time 
pressed  ;  the  Mayor  brought  his  remarks,  affectionately 
eulogistic  of  the  United  States  and  highly  complimentary 
to  their  distinguished  representative  at  that  table,  to  a 
close,  amid  a  vast  deal  of  cheering ;  and  the  band  struck 
up  "  Hail  Columbia,"  I  believe,  though  it  might  have 
been  "  Old  Hundred,"  or  "  God  save  the  Queen "  over 
again,  for  anything  that  I  should  have  known  or  cared. 
When  the  music  ceased,  there  was  an  intensely  disagree 
able  instant,  during  which  I  seemed  to  rend  away  and 
fling  off  the  habit  of  a  lifetime,  and  rose,  still  void  of 
ideas,  but  with  preternatural  composure,  to  make  a  speech. 
The  guests  rattled  on  the  table,  and  cried,  "  Hear ! "  most 
vociferously,  as  if  now,  at  length,  in  this  foolish  and  idly 
garrulous  world,  had  come  the  long-expected  moment 


380  CIVIC    BANQUETS. 

when  one  golden  word  wa.  to  be  spoken;  and  in  that 
imminent  crisis,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  little  bit  of  an 
effusion  of  international  sentiment,  which  it  might,  and 
must,  and  should  do  to  utter. 

Well ;  it  was  nothing,  as  the  Sergeant  had  said.  What 
surprised  me  most  was  the  sound  of  my  own  voice,  which 
I  had  never  before  heard  at  a  declamatory  pitch,  and 
which  impressed  me  as  belonging  to  some  other  person, 
who,  and  not  myself,  would  be  responsible  for  the  speech : 
a  prodigious  consolation  and  encouragement  under  the  cir 
cumstances  !  I  went  on  without  the  slightest  embarrass 
ment,  and  sat  down  amid  great  applause,  wholly  unde 
served  by  anything  that  I  had  spoken,  but  well  won  from 
Englishmen,  methought,  by  the  new  development  of  pluck 
that  alone  had  enabled  me  to  speak  at  all.  "  It  was 
handsomely  done !  "  quoth  Sergeant  Wilkins  ;  and  I  felt 
like  a  recruit  who  had  been  for  the  first  time  under  fire. 

I  would  gladly  have  ended  my  oratorical  career  then 
and  there  forever,  but  was  often  placed  in  a  similar  or 
worse  position,  and  compelled  to  meet  it  as  I  best  might ; 
for  this  was  one  of  the  necessities  of  an  office  which  I  had 
voluntarily  taken  on  my  shoulders,  and  beneath  which 
I  might  be  crushed  by  no  moral  delinquency  on  my 
own  part,  but  could  not  shirk  without  cowardice  and 
shame.  My  subsequent  fortune  was  various.  Once, 
though  I  felt  it  to  be  a  kind  of  imposture,  I  got  a  speech 
by  heart,  and  doubtless  it  might  have  been  a  very  pretty 
one,  only  I  forgot  every  syllable  at  the  moment  of  need, 
and  had  to  improvise  another  as  well  as  I  could.  I  found 
it  a  better  method  to  prearrange  a  few  points  in  my  mind, 
and  trust  to  the  spur  of  the  occasion,  and  the  kind  aid  of 
Providence,  for  enabling  me  to  bring  them  to  bear.  The 


CiVJ'.    BANQUETS.  381 

Drtsence  **£  any  considerable  proportion  of  personal 
^vieids  gener»lly  dumbfounded  me.  I  would  rather  have 
Miked  with  an  enemy  in  the  gate.  Invariably,  too,  I 
^vas  much  embarrassed  by  a  small  audience,  and  suc 
ceeded  better  with  a  large  one,  —  the  sympathy  of  a 
multitude  possessing  a  buoyant  effect,  which  lifts  the 
speaker  a  little  way  out  of  his  individuality  and  tosses 
him  towards  a  perhaps  better  range  of  sentiment  than  his 
private  one.  Again,  if  I  rose  carelessly  and  confidently, 
with  an  expectation  of  going  through  the  business  entirely 
at  my  ease,  I  often  found  that  I  had  little  or  nothing 
to  say ;  where?*,  if  I  came  to  the  charge  in  perfect  de 
spair,  and  at  a  c'f'«is  when  failure  would  have  been  horri 
ble,  it  once  or  twice  happened  that  the  frightful  emergency 
concentrated  my  poor  faculties,  and  enabled  me  to  give 
definite  *ind  vigorous  expression  to  sentiments  which  an 
ins^n*  before  looked  as  vague  and  far  off  as  the  clouds 
in  the  -.atmosphere.  On  the  whole,  poor  as  my  own  suc 
cess  may  have  been,  I  apprehend  that  any  intelligent 
man  with  a  tongue  possesses  the  chief  requisite  of  ora 
torical  power,  and  may  develop  many  of  the  others,  if  he 
deems  it  worth  while  to  bestow  a  great  amount  of  labor 
and  pains  on  an  object  which  the  most  accomplished  ora 
tors,  I  suspect,  have  rot  found  altogether  satisfactory  to 
their  highest  impulses.  At  any  rate,  it  must  be  a  re 
markably  true  man  who  can  keep  his  own  elevated  con 
ception  of  truth  when  the  lower  feeling  of  a  multitude  is 
assailing  his  natural  sympathies,  and  who  can  speak  out 
frankly  the  best  that  there  is  in  him,  when  by  adulterat 
ing  it  a  little,  or  a  good  deal,  he  knows  that  he  may  make 
it  ten  times  as  acceptable  to  the  audience. 


382  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

THIS  slight  article  on  the  civic  banquets  of  England 
would  be  too  wretchedly  imperfect,  without  an  attempted 
description  of  a  Lord  Mayor's  dinner  at  the  Mansion 
House  in  London.  I  should  have  preferred  the  annual 
feast  at  Guildhall,  but  never  had  the  good  fortune  to  wit 
ness  it.  Once,  however,  I  was  honored  with  an  invita 
tion  to  one  of  the  regular  dinners,  and  gladly  accepted  it, 
—  taking  the  precaution,  nevertheless,  though  it  hardly 
seemed  necessary,  to  inform  the  City-King,  through  a 
mutual  friend,  that  I  was  no  fit  representative  of  American 
eloquence,  and  must  humbly  make  it  a  condition  that  I 
should  not  be  expected  to  open  my  mouth,  except  for  the 
reception  of  his  Lordship's  bountiful  hospitality.  .The 
reply  was  gracious  and  acquiescent ;  so  that  I  presented 
myself  in  the  great  entrance-hall  of  the  Mansion  House, 
at  half-past  six  o'clock,  in  a  state  of  most  enjoyable  free 
dom  from  the  pusillanimous  apprehensions  that  often  tor 
mented  me  at  such  times.  The  Mansion  House  was  built 
in  Queen  Anne's  days,  in  the  very  heart  of  old  London, 
and  is  a  palace  worthy  of  its  inhabitant,  were  he  really 
as  great  a  man  as  his  traditionary  state  and  pomp  would 
seem  to  indicate.  Times  are  changed,  however,  since  the 
days  of  Whittington,  or  even  of  Hogarth's  Industrious 
Apprentice,  to  whom  the  highest  imaginable  reward  of 
life-long  integrity  was  a  seat  in  the  Lord  Mayor's  chair. 
People  nowadays  say  that  the  real  dignity  and  importance 
have  perished  out  of  the  office,  as  they  do,  sooner  or 
later,  out  of  all  earthly  institutions,  leaving  only  a  painted 
and  gilded  shell  like  that  of  an  Easter  egg,  and  that  it  is 
only  second-rate  and  third-rate  men  who  now  condescend 
to  be  ambitious  of  the  Mayoralty.  I  felt  a  little  grieved 
at  this  ;  for  the  original  emigrants  of  New  England  had 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  383 

strong  sympathies  with  the  people  of  London,  who  were 
mostly  Puritans  in  religion  and  Parliamentarisms  in  poli 
tics,  in  the  early  days  of  our  country ;  so  that  the  Lord 
Mayor  was  a  potentate  of  huge  dimensions  in  the  estima 
tion  of  our  forefathers,  and  held  to  be  hardly  second  to 
the  prime  minister  of  the  throne.  The  true  great  men  of 
the  city  now  appear  to  have  aims  beyond  city  greatness, 
connecting  themselves  with  national  politics,  and  seeking 
to  be  identified  with  the  aristocracy  of  the  country. 

In  the  entrance-hall  I  was  received  by  a  body  of  foot 
me n  dressed  in  a  livery  of  blue  coats  and  buff  breeches, 
in  which  they  looked  wonderfully  like  American  Revolu 
tionary  generals,  only  bedizened  with  far  more  lace  and 
embroidery  than  those  simple  and  grand  old  heroes  ever 
dreamed  of  wearing.  There  were  likewise  two  very  im 
posing  figures,  whom  I  should  have  taken  to  be  military 
men  of  rank,  being  arrayed  in  scarlet  coats  and  large  silver 
epaulets  ;  but  they  turned  out  to  be  officers  of  the  Lord 
Mayor's  household,  and  were  now  employed  in  assigning 
to  the  guests  the  places  which  they  were  respectively  to  oc 
cupy  at  the  dinner-table.  Our  names  (for  I  had  included 
myself  in  a  little  group  of  friends)  were  announced  ;  and 
ascending  the  staircase,  we  met  his  Lordship  in  the  door 
way  of  the  first  reception-room,  where,  also,  we  had  the 
advantage  of  a  presentation  to  the  Lady  Mayoress.  As 
this  distinguished  couple  retired  into  private  life  at  the 
emanation  of  their  year  of  office,  it  is  inadmissible  to 
make  any  remarks,  critical  or  laudatory,  on  the  manners 
Mnd  bearing  of  two  personages  suddenly  emerging  from  a 
position  of  respectable  mediocrity  into  one  of  preeminent 
dignity  within  their  own  sphere.  Such  individuals  almost 
always  seem  to  grow  nearly  or  quite  to  the  full  size  of 


384  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

their  office.  If  it  were  desirable  to  write  an  essay  on 
the  latent  aptitude  of  ordinary  people  for  grandeur,  we 
have  an  exemplification  in  our  own  country,  and  on  a  scale 
incomparably  greater  than  that  of  the  Mayoralty,  though 
invested  with  nothing  like  the  outward  magnificence  that 
gilds  and  embroiders  the  latter.  If  I  have  been  correctly 
informed,  the  Lord  Mayor's  salary  is  exactly  double  that 
of  the  President  of  the  United  States,  and  yet  is  found 
very  inadequate  to  his  necessary  expenditure. 

There  were  two  reception-rooms,  thrown  into  one  by 
the  opening  of  wide  folding-doors  ;  and  though  in  an  old 
style,  and  not  yet  so  old  as  to  be  venerable,  they  are  re 
markably  handsome  apartments,  lofty  as  well  as  spacious, 
with  carved  ceilings  and  walls,  and  at  either  end  a  splen 
did  fireplace  of  white  marble,  ornamented  with  sculp 
tured  wreaths  of  flowers  and  foliage.  The  company  were 
about  three  hundred,  many  of  them  celebrities  in  politics, 
war,  literature,  and  science,  though  I  recollect  none  pre 
eminently  distinguished  in  either  department.  But  it  is 
certainly  a  pleasant  mode  of  doing  honor  to  men  of  litera 
ture,  for  example,  who  deserve  well  of  the  public,  yet  do 
not  often  meet  it  face  to  face,  thus  to  bring  them  together, 
under  genial  auspices,  in  connection  with  persons  of  note 
in  other  lines.  I  know  not  what  may  be  the  Lord 
Mayor's  mode  or  principle  of  selecting  his  guests,  nor 
whether,  during  his  official  term,  he  can  proffer  his  hospi 
tality  to  every  man  of  noticeable  talent  in  the  wide  world 
of  London,  nor,  in  fine,  whether  his  Lordship's  invitation 
is  much  sought  for  or  valued  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
this  periodical  feast  is  one  of  the  many  sagacious  methods 
which  the  English  have  contrived  for  keeping  up  a  good 
understanding  among  different  sorts  of  people.  Like 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  385 

most  other  distinctions  of  society,  however,  I  presume 
that  the  Lord  Mayor's  card  does  not  often  seek  out 
modest  merit,  but  comes  at  last  when  the  recipient  is 
conscious  of  the  bore,  and  doubtful  about  the  honor. 

One  very  pleasant  characteristic,  which  I  never  met 
with  at  any  other  public  or  partially  public  dinner,  was 
the  presence  of  ladies.  No  doubt,  they  were  principally 
the  wives  and  daughters  of  city  magnates  ;  and  if  we  may 
judge  from  the  many  sly  allusions  in  old  plays  and  satiri 
cal  poems,  the  city  of  London  has  always  been  famous 
for  the  beauty  of  its  women  and  the  reciprocal  attractions 
between  them  and  the  men  of  quality.  Be  that  as  it 
might,  while  straying  hither  and  thither  through  those 
crowded  apartments,  I  saw  much  reason  for  modifying 
certain  heterodox  opinions  which  I  had  imbibed,  in  my 
Transatlantic  newness  and  rawness,  as  regarded  the  deli 
cate  character  and  frequent  occurrence  of  English  beauty. 
To  state  the  entire  truth,  (being,  at  this  period,  some 
years  old  in  English  life,)  my  taste,  I  fear,  had  long  since 
begun  to  be  deteriorated  by  acquaintance  with  other 
models  of  feminine  loveliness  than  it  was  my  happiness 
to  know  in  America.  I  often  found,  or  seemed  to  find, 
if  I  may  dare  to  confess  it,  in  the  persons  of  such  of  my 
dear  countrywomen  as  I  now  occasionally  met,  a  certain 
meagreness,  (Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  call  it  scrawni- 
ness !)  a  deficiency  of  physical  development,  a  scantiness, 
so  to  speak,  in  the  pattern  of  their  material  make,  a  pale 
ness  of  complexion,  a  thinness  of  voice,  —  all  of  which 
characteristics,  nevertheless,  only  made  me  resolve  so 
much  the  more  sturdily  to  uphold  these  fair  creatures  as 
angels,  because  I  was  sometimes  driven  to  a  half-acknowl 
edgment,  that  the  English  ladies,  looked  at  from  a  lowei 
25 


386  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

point  of  \iew,  were  perhaps  a  little  finer  animals  than 
they.  The  advantages  of  the  latter,  if  any  they  could 
really  be  said  to  have,  were  all  comprised  in  a  few  addi 
tional  lumps  of  clay  on  their  shoulders  and  other  parts 
of  their  figures.  It  would  be  a  pitiful  bargain  to  give  up 
the  ethereal  charm  of  American  beauty  in  exchange  foi 
half  a  hundred- weight  of  human  clay ! 

At  a  given  signal  we  all  found  our  way  into  an  im 
mense  room,  called  the  Egyptian  Hall,  I  know  not  why, 
except  that  the  architecture  was  classic,  and  as  different 
as  possible  from  the  ponderous  style  of  Memphis  and  the 
Pyramids.  A  powerful  band  played  inspiringly  as  we 
entered,  and  a  brilliant  profusion  of  light  shone  down  on 
two  long  tables,  extending  the  whole  length  of  the  hall, 
and  a  cross-table  between  them,  occupying  nearly  its  en 
tire  breadth.  Glass  gleamed  and  silver  glistened  on  an 
acre  or  two  of  snowy  damask,  over  which  were  set  out 
all  the  accompaniments  of  a  stately  feast.  We  found  our 
places  without  much  difficulty,  and  the  Lord  Mayor's 
chaplain  implored  a  blessing  on  the  food,  —  a  ceremony 
which  the  English  never  omit,  at  a  great  dinner  or  a 
small  one,  yet  consider,  I  fear,  not  so  much  a  religious  rite 
as  a  sort  of  preliminary  relish  before  the  soup. 

The  soup,  of  course,  on  this  occasion,  was  turtle,  of 
which,  in  accordance  with  immemorial  custom,  each  guest 
was  allowed  two  platefuls,  in  spite  of  the  otherwise  im 
mitigable  law  of  table-decorum.  Indeed,  judging  from 
the  proceedings  of  the  gentlemen  near  me,  I  surmised 
that  there  was  no  practical  limit,  except  the  appetite  of 
the  guests  and  the  capacity  of  the  soup-tureens.  Nol 
being  fond  of  this  civic  dainty,  I  partook  of  it  but  once, 
and  then  only  in  accordance  with  the  wise  maxim,  al 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  387 

way*  to  taste  a  fruit,  a  wine,  or  a  celebrated  dish,  at  its 
indigenous  site  ;  and  the  very  fountain-head  of  turtle- 
soup,  I  suppose,  is  in  the  Lord  Mayor's  dinner-pot.  It 
is  one  of  those  orthodox  customs  which  people  follow  for 
half  a  century  without  knowing  why,  to  drink  a  sip  of 
rum-punch,  in  a  very  small  tumbler,  after  the  soup.  It 
was  excellently  well-brewed,  and  it  seemed  to  me  almost 
worth  while  to  sup  the  soup  for  the  sake  of  sipping  the 
punch.  The  rest  of  the  dinner  was  catalogued  in  a  bill-of- 
fare  printed  on  delicate  white  paper  within  an  arabesque 
border  of  green  and  gold.  It  looked  very  good,  not 
only  in  the  English  and  French  names  of  the  numerous 
dishes,  but  also  in  the  positive  reality  of  the  dishes  them 
selves,  which  were  all  set  on  the  table  to  be  carved  and 
distributed  by  the  guests.  This  ancient  and  honest  method 
is  attended  with  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  and  a  lavish  effu 
sion  of  gravy,  yet  by  no  means  bestowed  or  dispensed  in 
vain,  because  you  have  thereby  the  absolute  assurance  of 
a  banquet  actually  before  your  eyes,  instead  of  a  shadowy 
promise  in  the  bill-of-fare,  and  such  meagre  fulfilment  as 
a  single  guest  can  contrive  to  get  upon  his  individual 
plate.  I  wonder  that  Englishmen,  who  are  fond  of  look 
ing  at  prize-oxen  in  the  shape  of  butcher's-meat,  do  not 
generally  better  estimate  the  aesthetic  gormandism  of  de 
vouring  the  whole  dinner  with  their  eyesight,  before  pro 
ceeding  to  nibble  the  comparatively  few  morsels  which, 
after  all,  the  most  heroic  appetite  and  widest  stomachic 
capacity  of  mere  mortals  can  enable  even  an  alderman 
really  to  eat.  There  fell  to  my  lot  three  delectable  things 
enough,  which  I  take  pains  to  remember,  that  the  reader 
may  not  go  away  wholly  unsatisfied  from  the  Barmecide 
feast  to  which  I  have  bidden  him,  —  a  red  mullet,  a  plate 


888  CIVIC   BANQUETS. 

of  mushrooms,  exquisitely  stewed,  and  part  of  a  ptarmi* 
gan,  a  bird  of  the  same  family  as  the  grouse,  but  feeding 
high  up  towards  the  summit  of  the  Scotch  mountains, 
whence  it  gets  a  wild  delicacy  of  flavor  very  superior  tc 
that  of  the  artificially  nurtured  English  game-fowl.  All 
the  other  dainties  have  vanished  from  my  memory  as 
completely  as  those  of  Prospero's  banquet  after  Ariel  ha* 
clapped  his  wings  over  it.  The  band  played  at  intervals 
inspiriting  us  to  new  efforts,  as  did  likewise  the  sparkling 
wines  which  the  footmen  supplied  from  an  inexhaustible 
cellar,  and  which  the  guests  quaffed  with  little  apparent 
reference  to  the  disagreeable  fact  that  there  comes  a  to 
morrow  morning  after  every  feast.  As  long  as  that  shall 
be  the  case,  a  prudent  man  can  never  have  full  enjoyment 
of  his  dinner. 

Nearly  opposite  to  me,  on  the  other  side  of  the  table 
sat  a  young  lady  in  white,  whom  I  am  sorely  tempted  to 
describe,  but  dare  not,  because  not  only  the  superemi- 
ence  of  her  beauty,  but  its  peculiar  character,  would 
cause  the  sketch  to  be  recognized,  however  rudely  it 
might  be  drawn.  I  hardly  thought  that  there  existed 
such  a  woman  outside  of  a  picture-frame,  or  the  covers 
of  a  romance  :  not  that  I  had  ever  met  with  her  resem 
blance  even  there,  but,  being  so  distinct  and  singular  an 
apparition,  she  seemed  likelier  to  find  her  sisterhood  in 
poetry  and  picture  than  in  real  life.  Let  us  turn  away 
from  her,  lest  a  touch  too  apt  should  compel  her  stately 
and  cold  and  soft  and  womanly  grace  to  gleam  out  upon 
my  page  with  a  strange  repulsion  and  unattainableness  in 
the  very  spell  that  made  her  beautiful.  At  her  side,  and 
familiarly  attentive  to  her,  sat  a  gentleman  of  whom  1 
remember  only  a  hard  outline  of  the  nose  and  forehead 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  389 

and  such  a  monstrous  portent  of  a  beard  that  you  could 
discover  no  symptom  of  a  mouth,  except  when  he  opened 
it  to  speak,  or  to  put  in  a  morsel  of  food.  Then,  indeed, 
YOU  suddenly  became  aware  of  a  cave  hidden  behind  the 
impervious  and  darksome  shrubbery.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  who  this  gentleman  and  lady  were.  Any  child 
would  have  recognized  them  at  a  glance.  It  was  Blue 
beard  and  a  new  wife  (the  loveliest  of  the  series,  but  with 
already  a  mysterious  gloom  overshadowing  her  fair  young 
brow)  travelling  in  their  honey-moon,  and  dining,  among 
other  distinguished  strangers,  at  the  Lord  Mayor's  table. 

After  an  hour  or  two  of  valiant  achievement  with  knife 
and  fork  came  the  dessert ;  and  at  the  point  of  the  festi 
val  where  finger-glasses  are  usually  introduced,  a  large 
silver  basin  was  carried  round  to  the  guests,  containing 
rose-water,  into  which  we  dipped  the  ends  of  our  napkins 
and  were  conscious  of  a  delightful  fragrance,  instead  of 
that  heavy  and  weary  odor,  the  hateful  ghost  of  a  defunct 
dinner.  This  seems  to  be  an  ancient  custom  of  the  city, 
not  confined  to  the  Lord  Mayor's  table,  but  never  met 
with  westward  of  Temple  Bar. 

During  all  the  feast,  in  accordance  with  another  ancient 
custom,  the  origin  or  purport  of  which  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  heard,  there  stood  a  man  in  armor,  with  a  helmet  on 
his  head,  behind  his  Lordship's  chair.  When  the  after-din 
ner  wine  was  placed  on  the  table,  still  another  official  per 
sonage  appeared  behind  the  chair,  and  proceeded  to  make 
a  solemn  and  sonorous  proclamation,  (in  which  he  enu 
merated  the  principal  guests,  comprising  three  or  four 
noblemen,  several  baronets,  and  plenty  of  generals,  mem 
bers  of  Parliament,  aldermen,  and  other  names  of  the  il 
lustrious,  one  of  which  sounded  strangely  familiar  to  my 


390  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

ears,)  ending  in  some  such  style  as  this  :  "  and  other  gen 
tlemen  and  ladies,  here  present,  the  Lord  Mayor  drinks 
to  you  all  in  a  loving-cup,"  —  giving  a  sort  of  sentimental 
twang  to  the  two  words,  —  "  and  sends  it  round  among 
you !  "  And  forthwith  the  loving-cup  —  several  of  them, 
indeed,  on  each  side  of  the  tables  —  came  slowly  down 
with  all  the  antique  ceremony. 

The  fashion  of  it  is  thus.  The  Lord  Mayor,  standing 
up  and  taking  the  covered  cup  in  both  hands,  presents  it 
to  the  guest  at  his  elbow,  who  likewise  rises,  and  removes 
the  cover  for  his  Lordship  to  drink,  which  being  success 
fully  accomplished,  the  guest  replaces  the  cover  and  re 
ceives  the  cup  into  his  own  hands.  He  then  presents  it 
to  his  next  neighbor,  that  the  cover  may  be  again  removed 
for  himself  to  take  a  draught,  after  which  the  third  per 
son  goes  through  a  similar  manoeuvre  with  a  fourth,  and 
he  with  a  fifth,  until  the  whole  company  find  themselves 
inextricably  intertwisted  and  entangled  in  one  complicated 
chain  of  love.  When  the  cup  came  to  my  hands,  I  ex 
amined  it  critically,  both  inside  and  out,  and  perceived 
it  to  be  an  antique  and  richly  ornamented  silver  goblet, 
capable  of  holding  about  a  quart  of  wine.  Considering 
how  much  trouble  we  all  expended  in  getting  the  cup  to 
our  lips,  the  guests  appeared  to  content  themselves  with 
wonderfully  moderate  potations.  In  truth,  nearly  or  quite 
the  original  quart  of  wine  being  still  in  the  goblet,  i 
eeemed  doubtful  whether  any  of  the  company  had  men 
than  barely  touched  the  silver  rim  before  passing  it  t( 
their  neighbors,  —  a  degree  of  abstinence  that  might  bi 
accounted  for  by  a  fastidious  repugnance  to  so  many  com 
potators  in  one  cup,  or  possibly  by  a  disapprobation  :>f  thi 
liquor.  Being  curious  to  know  all  about  these  important 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  391 

matters,  with  a  view  of  recommending  to  my  countrymen 
whatever  they  might  usefully  adopt,  I  drank  an  honest 
sip  from  the  loving-cup,  and  had  no  occasion  for  another, 
—  ascertaining  it  to  be  Claret  of  a  poor  original  quality, 
largely  mingled  with  water,  and  spiced  and  sweetened. 
It  was  good  enough,  however,  for  a  merely  spectral  or 
ceremonial  drink,  and  could  never  have  been  intended  for 
any  better  purpose. 

The  toasts  now  began  in  the  customary  order,  attended 
with  speeches  neither  more  nor  less  witty  and  ingenious 
than  the  specimens  of  table-eloquence  which  had  hereto 
fore  delighted  me.  As  preparatory  to  each  new  display, 
the  herald,  or  whatever  he  was,  behind  the  chair  of  state, 
gave  awful  notice  that  the  Right  Honorable  the  Lord 
Mayor  was  about  to  propose  a  toast.  His  Lordship  being 
happily  delivered  thereof,  together  with  some  accompany 
ing  remarks,  the  band  played  an  appropriate  tune,  and 
the  herald  again  issued  proclamation  to  the  effect  that 
such  or  such  a  nobleman,  or  gentleman,  general,  dignified 
clergyman,  or  what  not,  was  going  to  respond  to  the 
Right  Honorable  the  Lord  Mayor's  toast ;  then,  if  I  mis 
take  not,  there  was  another  prodigious  flourish  of  trum 
pets  and  twanging  of  stringed  instruments ;  and  finally 
the  doomed  individual,  waiting  all  this  while  to  be  de 
capitated,  got  up  and  proceeded  to  make  a  fool  of  him 
self.  A  bashful  young  earl  tried  his  maiden  oratory  on 
the  good  citizens  of  London,  and  having  evidently  got 
every  word  by  heart,  (even  including,  however  he  man 
aged  it,  the  most  seemingly  casual  improvisations  of  the 
moment,)  he  really  spoke  like  a  book,  and  made  incom 
parably  the  smoothest  speech  I  ever  heard  in  England. 

The  weight  and  gravity  of  the  speakers,  not  only  OD 


892  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

this  occasion,  but  all  similar  ones,  was  what  impressed  ma 
as  most  extraordinary,  not  to  say  absurd.  Why  should 
people  eat  a  good  dinner,  and  put  their  spirits  into  festive 
trim  with  Champagne,  and  afterwards  mellow  themselves 
into  a  most  enjoyable  state  of  quietude  with  copious  liba 
tions  of  Sherry  and  old  Port,  and  then  disturb  the  whole 
excellent  result  by  listening  to  speeches  as  heavy  as  an 
after-dinner  nap,  and  in  no  degree  so  refreshing  ?  If  the 
Champagne  had  thrown  its  sparkle  over  the  surface  of 
these  effusions,  or  if  the  generous  Port  had  shone  through 
their  substance  with  a  ruddy  glow  of  the  old  English 
humor,  I  might  have  seen  a  reason  for  honest  gentlemen 
prattling  in  their  cups,  and  should. undoubtedly  have  betn 
glad  to  be  a  listener.  But  there  was  no  attempt  nor  im 
pulse  of  the  kind  on  the  part  of  the  orators,  nor  apparent 
expectation  of  such  a  phenomenon  on  that  of  the  audi 
ence.  In  fact,  I  imagine  that  the  latter  were  best  pleased 
when  the  speaker  embodied  his  ideas  in  the  figurative 
language  of  arithmetic,  or  struck  upon  any  hard  matter 
of  business  or  statistics,  as  a  heavy-laden  bark  bumps 
upon  a  rock  in  mid-ocean.  The  sad  severity,  the  too  ear 
nest  utilitarianism,  of  modern  life,  have  wrought  a  radical 
and  lamentable  change,  I  am  afraid,  in  this  ancient  and 
goodly  institution  of  civic  banquets.  People  used  to 
come  to  them,  a  few  hundred  years  ago,  for  the  sake  of 
being  jolly ;  they  come  now  with  an  odd  notion  of  pour 
ing  sober  wisdom  into  their  wine  by  way  of  wormwood 
bitters,  and  thus  make  such  a  mess  of  it  that  the  wrine 
and  wisdom  reciprocally  spoil  one  another. 

Possibly,  the  foregoing  sentiments  have  taken  a  spice 
of  acridity  from  a  circumstance  that  happened  about  this 
stage  of  the  feast,  and  very  much  interrupted  my  own 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  393 

fk/ther  enjoyment  of  it.  Up  to  this  time,  my  condition 
had  been  exceedingly  felicitous,  both  on  account  of  the 
brilliancy  of  the  scene,  and  because  I  was  in  close  prox 
imity  with  three  very  pleasant  English  friends.  One  of 
them  was  a  lady,  whose  honored  name  my  readers  would 
recognize  as  a  household  word,  if  I  dared  write  it ;  an 
other,  a  gentleman,  likewise  well  known  to  them,  whose 
fine  taste,  kind  heart,  and  genial  cultivation  are  qualities 
seldom  mixed  in  such  happy  proportion  as  in  him.  The 
third  was  the  man  to  whom  I  owed  most  in  England,  the 
warm  benignity  of  whose  nature  was  never  weary  of 
doing  me  good,  who  led  me  to  many  scenes  of  life,  in 
town,  camp,  and  country,  which  I  never  could  have  found 
out  for  myself,  who  knew  precisely  the  kind  of  help  a 
stranger  needs,  and  gave  it  as  freely  as  if  he  had  not  had 
a  thousand  more  important  things  to  live  for.  Thus  I 
never  felt  safer  or  cosier  at  anybody's  fireside,  even  my 
own,  than  at  the  dinner-table  of  the  Lord  Mayor. 

Out  of  this  serene  sky  came  a  thunderbolt.  His  Lord 
ship  got  up  and  proceeded  to  make  some  very  eulogistic 
remarks  upon  "  the  literary  and  commercial "  —  I  ques 
tion  whether  those  two  adjectives  were  ever  before  mar 
ried  by  a  copulative  conjunction,  and  they  certainly  would 
not  live  together  in  illicit  intercourse,  of  their  own  accord 
— "  the  literary  and  commercial  attainments  of  an  emi 
nent  gentleman  there  present,"  and  then  went  on  to  speak 
of  the  relations  of  blood  and  interest  between  Grea 
Britain  and  the  aforesaid  eminent  gentleman's  native 
country.  Those  bonds  were  more  intimate  than  had 
ever  before  existed  between  two  great  nations,  through 
out  all  history,  and  his  Lordship  felt  assured  that  thai 
whole  honorable  company  would  join  him  in  the  expres- 


394  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

fiion  of  a  fervent  wish  that  they  might  be  held  inviolably 
sacred,  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  now  and  forever. 
Then  came  the  same  wearisome  old  toast,  dry  and  hard 
to  chew  upon  as  a  musty  sea-biscuit,  which  had  been  the 
text  of  nearly  all  the  oratory  of  my  public  career.  The 
herald  sonorously  announced  that  Mr.  So-and-so  Av^uld 
now  respond  to  his  Right  Honorable  Lordship's  toast  and 
speech,  the  trumpets  sounded  the  customary  flourish  for 
the  onset,  there  was  a  thunderous  rumble  of  anticipatory 
applause,  and  finally  a  deep  silence  sank  upon  the  festivi 
hall. 

All  tliis  was  a  horrid  piece  of  treachery  on  the  Lord 
Mayor's  part,  after  beguiling  me  within  his  lines  on  a 
pledge  of  safe-conduct ;  and  it  seemed  very  strange  that 
lie  could  not  let  an  unobtrusive  individual  eat  his  dinner 
in  peace,  drink  a  small  sample  of  the  Mansion  House 
wine,  and  go  away  grateful  at  heart  for  the  old  English 
hospitality.  If  his  Lordship  had  sent  me  an  infusion  of 
ratsbane  in  the  loving-cup,  I  should  have  taken  it  much 
more  kindly  at  his  hands.  But  I  suppose  the  secret  of 
the  matter  to  have  been  somewhat  as  follows. 

All  England,  just  then,  was  in  one  of  those  singular 
fits  of  panic  excitement,  (not  fear,  though  as  sensitive 
and  tremulous  as  that  emotion,)  which,  in  consequence 
of  the  homogeneous  character  of  the  people,  their  intense 
patriotism,  and  their  dependence  for  their  ideas  in  public 
affairs  on  other  sources  than  their  own  examination  and 
individual  thought,  are  more  sudden,  pervasive,  and  un 
reasoning  than  any  similar  mood  of  our  own  public.  In 
truth,  I  have  never  seen  the  American  public  in  a  state 
at  all  similar,  and  believe  that  we  are  incapable  of  it. 
Our  excitements  are  not  impulsive,  like  theirs,  but,  right 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  395 

or  wrong,  are  moral  and  intellectual.  For  example,  the 
grand  rising  of  the  North,  at  the  commencement  of  this 
war,  bore  the  aspect  of  impulse  and  passion  only  because 
it  was  so  universal,  and  necessarily  done  in  a  moment, 
iust  as  the  quiet  and  simultaneous  getting-up  of  a  thou 
Band  people  out  of  their  chairs  would  cause  a  tumult  that 
might  be  mistaken  for  a  storm.  We  were  cool  then,  and 
have  been  cool  ever  since,  and  shall  remain  cool  to  tlu. 
end,  which  we  shall  take  coolly,  whatever  it  may  be. 
There  is  nothing  which  the  English  find  it  so  difficult  to 
understand  in  us  as  this  characteristic.  They  imagine  us, 
in  our  collective  capacity,  a  kind  of  wild  beast,  whose 
normal  condition  is  savage  fury,  and  are  always  looking 
for  the  moment  when  we  shall  break  through  the  slender 
barriers  of  international  law  and  comity,  and  compel  the 
reasonable  part  of  the  world,  with  themselves  at  the 
head,  to  combine  for  the  purpose  of  putting  us  into  a 
stronger  cage.  At  times  this  apprehension  becomes  so 
powerful,  (and  when  one  man  feels  it,  a  million  do,)  that 
it  resembles  the  passage  of  the  wind  over  a  broad  field 
of  grain,  where  you  see  the  whole  crop  bending  and 
swaying  beneath  one  impulse,  and  each  separate  stalk 
tossing  with  the  self-same  disturbance  as  its  myriad  com 
panions.  At  such  periods  all  Englishmen  talk  with  a  ter 
rible  identity  of  sentiment  and  expression.  You  have  the 
whole  country  in  each  man ;  and  not  one  of  them  all,  if 
you  put  him  strictly  to  the  question,  can  give  a  reason 
able  ground  for  his  alarm.  There  are  but  two  nations  in 
the  world  —  our  own  country  and  France  —  that  can  put 
England  into  this  singular  state.  It  is  the  united  sensi 
tiveness  of  a  people  extremely  well-to-do,  careful  of  their 
country's  honor,  most  anxious  for  the  preservation  of  the 


396  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

cumbrous  and  moss-grown  prosperity  which  they  have 
been  so  long  in  consolidating,  and  incompetent  (owing  to 
the  national  half-sightedness,  and  their  habit  of  trusting 
to  a  few  leading  minds  for  their  public  opinion)  to  judge 
when  that  prosperity  is  really  threatened. 

If  the  English  were  accustomed  to  look  at  the  foreign 
side  of  any  international  dispute,  they  might  easily  have 
satisfied  themselves  that  there  was  veiy  little  danger  of 
a  war  at  that  particular  crisis,  from  the  simple  circum 
stance  that  their  own  Government  had  positively  not  an 
inch  of  honest  ground  to  stand  upon,  and  could  not  fail 
to  be  aware  of  the  fact.  Neither  could  they  have  met 
Parliament  with  any  show  of  a  justification  for  incur 
ring  war.  It  was  no  such  perilous  juncture  as  exists 
now,  when  law  and  right  are  really  controverted  on  sus 
tainable  or  plausible  grounds,  and  a  naval  commander 
may  at  any  moment  fire  off  the  first  cannon  of  a  terrible 
contest.  If  I  remember  it  correctly,  it  was  a  mere  diplo 
matic  squabble,  in  which  the  British  ministers,  with  the 
politic  generosity  which  they  are  in  the  habit  of  showing 
towards  their  official  subordinates,  had  tried  to  browbeat 
us  for  the  purpose  of  sustaining  an  ambassador  in  an  in 
defensible  proceeding;  and  the  American  Government 
(for  God  had  not  denied  us  an  administration  of  States 
men  then)  had  retaliated  with  stanch  courage  and  ex- 
juisite  skill,  putting  inevitably  a  cruel  mortification  upon 
their  opponents,  but  indulging  them  with  no  pretence 
whatever  for  active  resentment. 

Now  the  Lord  Mayor,  like  any  other  Englishman, 
probably  fancied  that  War  was  on  the  western  gale,  and 
was  glad  to  lay  hold  of  even  so  insignificant  an  Ameri 
can  as  myself,  who  might  be  made  to  harp  on  the  rusty 


CIVIC  BANQUETS.  397 

old  strings  of  national  sympathies,  identity  of  blood  and 
interest,  and  community  of  language  and  literature,  and 
whisper  peace  where  there  was  no  peace,  in  however 
weak  an  utterance.  And  possibly  his  Lordship  thought, 
in  his  wisdom,  that  the  good  feeling  which  was  sure  to  be 
expressed  by  a  company  of  well-bred  Englishmen,  at  his 
august  and  far-famed  dinner-table,  might  have  an  appre 
ciable  influence  on  the  grand  result.  Thus,  when  the 
Lord  Mayor  invited  me  to  his  feast,  it  was  a  piece  of 
strategy.  He  wanted  to  induce  me  to  fling  myself,  like 
a  lesser  Curtius,  with  a  larger  object  of  self-sacrifice,  into 
the  chasm  of  discord  between  England  and  America,  and, 
on  my  ignominious  demur,  had  resolved  to  shove  me  in 
with  his  own  right-honorable  hands,  in  the  hope  of  closing 
up  the  horrible  pit  forever.  On  the  whole,  I  forgive  his 
Lordship.  He  meant  well  by  all  parties,  —  himself,  who 
would  share  the  glory,  and  me,  who  ought  to  have  de 
sired  nothing  better  than  such  an  heroic  opportunity,  — • 
his  own  country,  which  would  continue  to  get  cotton  and 
breadstuffs,  and  mine,  which  would  get  everything  that 
men  work  with  and  wear. 

As  soon  as  the  Lord  Mayor  began  to  speak,  I  rapped 
upon  my  mind,  and  it  gave  forth  a  hollow  sound,  being 
absolutely  empty  of  appropriate  ideas.  I  never  thought 
of  listening  to  the  speech,  because  I  knew  it  all  before 
hand  in  twenty  repetitions  from  other  lips,  and  was  aware 
that  it  would  not  offer  a  single  suggestive  point.  In  this 
dilemma,  I  turned  to  one  of  my  three  friends,  a  gentle 
man  whom  I  knew  to  possess  an  enviable  flow  of  silver 
speech,  and  obtested  him,  by  whatever  he  deemed  holiest, 
to  give  me  at  least  an  available  thought  or  two  to  start 
with,  and,  once  afloat,  I  would  trust  to  my  guardian-angeJ 


398  CIVIC  BANQUETS. 

for  enabling  me  to  flounder  ashore  again.  He  advised 
me  to  begin  with  some  remarks  complimentary  to  the 
Lord  Mayor,  and  expressive  of  the  hereditary  reverence 
in  which  his  office  was  held  —  at  least,  my  friend  thought 
that  there  would  be  no  harm  in  giving  his  Lordship  this 
little  sugar-plum,  whether  quite  the  fact  or  no  —  was 
held  by  the  descendants  of  the  Puritan  forefathers. 
Thence,  if  I  liked,  getting  flexible  with  the  oil  of  my 
own  eloquence,  I  might  easily  slide  off  into  the  momen 
tous  subject  of  the  relations  between  England  and  Amer 
ica,  to  which  his  Lordship  had  made  such  weighty  al 
lusion. 

Seizing  this  handful  of  straw  with  a  death-grip,  and 
bidding  my  three  friends  bury  me  honorably,  I  got  upon 
my  legs  to  save  both  countries,  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 
The  tables  roared  and  thundered  at  me,  and  suddenly 
were  silent  again.  But,  as  I  have  never  happened  to 
stand  in  a  position  of  greater  dignity  and  peril,  I  deem  it 
a  stratagem  of  sage  policy  here  to  close  these  Sketches, 
leaving  myself  still  erect  in  so  heroic  an  attitude. 


THK   EMD. 


SEPTIMIUS  FKI/TON.  —  See  page  70. 


SEPTIMITTS   FELTON; 

OR, 

THE  ELIXIR  OF  LIFE. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  story  is  the  last  written  by  my 
father.  It  is  printed  as  it  was  found  among  his 
manuscripts.  I  believe  it  is  a  striking  specimen 
of  the  peculiarities  and  charm  of  his  style,  and 
that  it  will  have  an  added  interest  for  brother 
artists,  and  for  those  who  care  to  study  the 
method  of  his  composition,  from  the  mere  fact 
of  its  not  having  received  his  final  revision.  In 
any  case,  I  feel  sure  that  the  retention  of  the 
passages  within  brackets  (e.  g.  p.  30),  which  show 
how  my  father  intended  to  amplify  some  of  the 
descriptions  and  develop  more  fully  one  or  two 
of  the  character  studies,  will  not  be  regretted  by 
appreciative  readers.  My  earnest  thanks  are  due 
to  Mr.  Eobert  Browning  for  his  kind  assistance 
and  advice  in  interpreting  the  manuscript,  other 
wise  so  difficult  to  me. 

UNA  HAWTHORNE. 


SEPTIMIUS   FELTON; 

OB, 

THE  ELIXIR  OF  LIFE. 


IT  was  a  day  in  early  spring  5  and  as  that  sweet, 
genial  time  of  year  and  atmosphere  calls  out  tender 
greenness  from  the  ground,  —  beautiful  flowers,  or 
leaves  that  look  beautiful  because  so  long  unseen 
under  the  snow  and  decay,  —  so  the  pleasant  air  and 
warmth  had  called  out  three  young  people,  who  sat 
on  a  sunny  hillside  enjoying  the  warm  day  and  one 
another.  For  they  were  all  friends :  two  of  them 
young  men,  and  playmates  from  boyhood ;  the  third, 
a  girl  who,  two  or  three  years  younger  than  them 
selves,  had  been  the  object  of  their  boy-love,  their 
little  rustic,  childish  gallantries,  their  budding  affec 
tions  ;  until,  growing  all  towards  manhood  and  woman 
hood,  they  had  ceased  to  talk  about  such  matters, 
perhaps  thinking  about  them  the  more. 

These  three  young  people  were  neighbors'  children, 
dwelling  in  houses  that  stood  by  the  side  of  the  great 
Lexington  road,  along  a  ridgy  hill  that  rose  abruptly 
behind  them,  its  brow  covered  with  a  wood,  and 
which  stretched,  with  one  or  two  breaks  and  inter- 


4  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

ruptions,  into  the  heart  of  the  village  of  Concord,  the 
county  town.  It  was  in  the  side  of  this  hill  that, 
according  to  tradition,  the  first  settlers  of  the  village 
had  burrowed  in  caverns  which  they  had  dug  out  for 
their  shelter,  like  swallows  and  'woodchucks.  As  its 
slope  was  -towards  the  south,  and  its  ridge  and  crown 
ing  woods  defended  them  from  the  northern  blasts 
and  snow-drifts,  it  was  an  admirable  situation  for  the 
fierce  New  England  winter  ;  and  the  temperature 
was  milder,  by  several  degrees,  along  this  hillside  than 
on  the  unprotected  plains,  or  by  the  river,  or  in  any 
other  part  of  Concord.  So  that  here,  during  the  hun 
dred  years  that  had  elapsed  since  the  first  settlement 
of  the  place,  dwellings  had  successively  risen  close  to 
the  hill's  foot,  and  the  meadow  that  lay  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road  —  a  fertile  tract  —  had  been  culti 
vated;  and  these  three  young  people  were  the  chil 
dren's  children's  children  of  persons  of  respectability 
who  had  dwelt  there,  —  Rose  Garfield,  in  a  small 
house,  the  site  of  which  is  still  indicated  by  the 
cavity  of  a  cellar,  in  which  I  this  very  past  summer 
planted  some  sunflowers  to  thrust  their  great  disks 
out  from  the  hollow  and  allure  the  bee  and  the 
humming-bird ;  Robert  Hagburn,  in  a  house  of  some 
what  more  pretension,  a  hundred  yards  or  so  nearer 
to  the  village,  standing  back  from  the  road  in  the 
broader  space  which  the  retreating  hill,  cloven  by  a  gap 
in  that  place,  afforded ;  where  some  elms  intervened 
between  it  and  the  road,  offering  a  site  which  some 
person  of  a  natural  taste  for  the  gently  picturesque 
had  seized  upon.  Those  same  elms,  or  their  successors, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  5 

still  flung  a  noble  shade  over  the  same  old  house,  which 
the  magic  hand  of  Alcott  has  improved  by  the  touch 
that  throws  grace,  amiableness,  and  natural  beauty  over 
scenes  that  have  little  pretension  in  themselves. 

Now,  the  other  young  man,  Septimius  Felton,  dwelt 
in  a  small  wooden  house,  then,  I  suppose,  of  some 
score  of  years'  standing,  —  a  two-story  house,  gabled 
before,  but  with  only  two  rooms  on  a  floor,  crowded 
upon  by  the  hill  behind,  —  a  house  of  thick  walls,  as 
if  the  projector  had  that  sturdy  feeling  of  permanence 
in  life  which  incites  people  to  make  strong  their 
earthly  habitations,  as  if  deluding  themselves  with 
the  idea  that  they  could  still  inhabit  them ;  in  short, 
an  ordinary  dwelling  of  a  well-to-do  New  England 
farmer,  such  as  his  race  had  been  for  two  or  three 
generations  past,  although  there  were  traditions  of 
ancestors  who  had  led  lives  of  thought  and  study, 
and  possessed  all  the  erudition  that  the  universities 
of  England  could  bestow.  Whether  any  natural  turn 
for  study  had  descended  to  Septimius  from  these 
worthies,  or  how  his  tendencies  came  to  be  different 
from  those  of  his  family,  —  who,  within  the  memory 
of  the  neighborhood,  had  been  content  to  sow  and 
reap  the  rich  field  in  front  of  their  homestead,  —  so 
it  was,  that  Septimius  had  early  manifested  a  taste 
for  study.  By  the  kind  aid  of  the  good  minister  of 
the  town  he  had  been  fitted  for  college  ;  had  passed 
through  Cambridge  by  means  of  what  little  money 
his  father  had  left  him  and  by  his  own  exertions  in 
school-keeping;  and  was  now  a  recently  decorated 
baccalaureate,  with,  as  was  understood,  a  purpose  to 


6  SEPTIMUS  FELTON. 

devote  himself  to  the  ministry,  under  the  auspices  of 
that  reverend  and  good  friend  whose  support  and 
instruction  had  already  stood  him  in  such  stead. 

Now  here  were  these  young  people,  on  that  beauti 
ful  spring  morning,  sitting  on  the  hillside,  a  pleasant 
spectacle  of  fresh  life,  — pleasant,  as  if  they  had 
sprouted  like  green  things  under  the  influence  of  the 
warm  sun.  The  girl  was  very  pretty,  a  little  freckled, 
a  little  tanned,  but  with  a  face  that  glimmered  and 
gleamed  with  quick  and  cheerful  expressions;  a 
slender  form,  not  very  large,  with  a  quick  grace  in  its 
movements  ;  sunny  hair  that  had  a  tendency  to  curl, 
which  she  probably  favored  at  such  moments  as  her 
household  occupation  left  her ;  a  sociable  and  pleasant 
child,  as  both  of  the  young  men  evidently  thought. 
Robert  Hagburn,  one  might  suppose,  would  have  been 
the  most  to  her  taste ;  a  ruddy,  burly  young  fellow, 
handsome,  and  free  of  manner,  six  feet  high,  famous 
through  the  neighborhood  for  strength  and  athletic 
skill,  the  early  promise  of  what  was  to  be  a  man  fit 
for  all  offices  of  active  rural  life,  and  to  be,  in  mature 
age,  the  selectman,  the  deacon,  the  representative, 
the  colonel.  As  for  Septimius,  let  him  alone  a  mo 
ment  or  two,  and  then  they  would  see  him,  with  his 
head  bent  down,  brooding,  brooding,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
some  chip,  some  stone,  some  common  plant,  any  com 
monest  thing,  as  if  it  were  the  clew  and  index  to 
some  mystery ;  and  when,  by  chance  startled  out 
of  these  meditations,  he  .lifted  his  eyes,  there  would 
be  a  kind  of  perplexity,  a  dissatisfied,  foiled  look  in 
them,  as  if  of  his  speculations  he  found  no  end. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  7 

Such  was  now  the  case,  while  Robert  and  the  girl 
were  running  on  with  a  gay  talk  about  a  serious  sub 
ject,  so  that,  gay  as  it  was,  it  was  interspersed  With 
little  thrills  of  fear  on  the  girl's  part,  of  excitement 
on  Robert's.  Their  talk  was  of  public  trouble. 

"  My  grandfather  says,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  "  that 
we  shall  never  be  able  to  stand  against  old  England, 
because  the  men  are  a  weaker  race  than  he  remembers 
in  his  day,  —  weaker  than  his  father,  who  came  from 
England,  —  and  the  women  slighter  still ;  so  that  we 
are  dwindling  away,  grandfather  thinks ;  only  a  little 
sprightlier,  he  says  sometimes,  looking  at  me." 

"  Lighter,  to  be  sure,"  said  Robert  Hagburn ;  "  there 
is  the  lightness  of  the  Englishwomen  compressed  into 
little  space.  I  have  seen  them  and  know.  And  as 
to  the  men,  Rose,  if  they  have  lost  one  spark  of 
courage  and  strength  that  their  English  forefathers 
brought  from  the  old  land,  —  lost  any  one  good 
quality  without  having  made  it  up  by  as  good  or 
better,  —  then,  for  my  part,  I  don't  want  the  breed 
to  exist  any  longer*  And  this  war,  that  they  say  is 
coming  on,  will  be  a  good  opportunity  to  test  the 
matter.  Septimius  !  don't  you  think  so  1 " 

"  Think  what  1 "  asked  Septimius,  gravely,  lifting 
up  his  head. 

"  Think !  why,  that  your  countrymen  are  worthy 
to  live,"  said  Robert  Hagburn,  impatiently.  "For 
there  is  a  question  on  that  point." 

"  It  is  hardly  worth  answering  or  considering,"  said 
Septimius,  looking  at  him  thoughtfully.  "  We  live  so 
little  while,  that  (always  setting  aside  the  effect  on  a 


8  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

future  existence)  it  is  little  matter  whether  we  live 
or  no." 

"  Little  matter  ! "  said  Rose,  at  first  bewildered, 
then  laughing,  —  "  little  matter !  when  it  is  such  a 
comfort  to  live,  so  pleasant,  so  sweet ! " 

"Yes,  and  so  many  things  to  do,"  said  Robert; 
"  to  make  fields  yield  produce ;  to  be  busy  among 
men,  and  happy  among  the  women-folk;  to  play, 
work,  fight,  and  be  active  in  many  ways." 

"Yes;  but  so  soon  stilled,  before  your  activity 
has  come  to  any  definite  end,"  responded  Septimius, 
gloomily.  "  I  doubt,  if  it  had  been  left  to  my  choice, 
whether  I  should  have  taken  existence  on  such  terms ; 
so  much  trouble  of  preparation  to  live,  and  then  no 
life  at  all ;  a  ponderous  beginning,  and  nothing  more." 

"Do  you  find  fault  with  Providence,  Septimius  1" 
asked  Rose,  a  feeling  of  solemnity  coming  over  her 
cheerful  and  buoyant  nature.  Then  she  burst  out 
a-laughing.  "  How  grave  he  looks,  Robert ;  as  if  he 
had  lived  two  or  three  lives  already,  and  knew  all 
about  the  value  of  it.  But  I  think  it  was  worth  while 
to  be  born,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  one  such  pleasant 
spring  morning  as  this ;  and  God  gives  us  many  and 
better  things  when  these  are  past." 

"  We  hope  so,"  said  Septimius,  who  was  again  look 
ing  on  the  ground.  "  But  who  knows  ? " 

"  I  thought  you  knew,"  said  Robert  Hagburn. 
"You  have  been  to  college,  and  have  learned,  no 
doubt,  a  great  many  things.  You  are  a  student  of 
theology,  too,  and  have  looked  into  these  matters. 
Who  should  know,  if  not  you1?" 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  9 

"  Rose  and  you  have  just  as  good  means  of  ascer 
taining  these  points  as  I,"  said  Septimius;  "all  the 
certainty  that  can  be  had  lies  on  the  surface,  as  it 
should,  and  equally  accessible  to  every  man  or  woman. 
If  we  try  to  grope  deeper,  we  labor  for  naught,  and 
get  less  wise  while  we  try  to  be  more  so.  If  life  were 
long  enough  to  enable  us  thoroughly  to  sift  these 
matters,  then,  indeed  !  —  but  it  is  so  short !  " 

"  Always  this  same  complaint,"  said  Robert.  "  Sep- 
timius,  how  long  do  you  wish  to  live  1 " 

"  Forever ! "  said  Septimius.  "  It  is  none  too  long 
for  all  I  wish  to  know." 

"Forever1?"  exclaimed  Rose,  shivering  doubtfully. 
"Ah,  there  would  come  many,  many  thoughts,  and 
after  a  while  we  should  want  a  little  rest." 

"Forever]"  said  Robert  Hagburn.  "And  what 
would  the  people  do  who  wish  to  fill  our  places? 
You  are  unfair,  Septimius.  Live  and  let  live  !  Turn 
about !  Give  me  my  seventy  years,  and  let  me  go,  — 
my  seventy  years  of  what  this  life  has, — toil,  enjoy 
ment,  suffering,  struggle,  fight,  rest,  —  only  let  me 
have  my  share  of  what 's  going,  and  I  shall  be  content." 

"  Content  with  leaving  everything  at  odd  ends ; 
content  with  being  nothing,  as  you  were  before  ! " 

"  No,  Septimius,  content  with  heaven  at  last,"  said 
Rose,  who  had  come  out  of  her  laughing  mood  into  a 
sweet  seriousness.  "  0  dear  !  think  what  a  worn  and 
ugly  thing  one  of  these  fresh  little  blades  of  grass 
would  seem  if  it  were  not  to  fade  and  wither  in  its 
time,  after  being  green  in  its  time." 

"  Well,  well,  my  pretty  Rose,"  said  Septimius  apart, 


10  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  an  immortal  weed  is  not  verj  lovely  to  think  of,  that 
is  true  j  but  I  should  be  content  with  one  thing,  and 
that  is  yourself,  if  you  were  immortal,  just  as  you 
are  at  seventeen,  so  fresh,  so  dewy,  so  red-lipped,  so 
golden-haired,  so  gay,  so  frolicsome,  so  gentle." 

"But  I  am  to  grow  old,  and  to  be  brown  and 
wrinkled,  gray-haired  and  ugly,"  said  Rose,  rather 
sadly,  as  she  thus  enumerated  the  items  of  her  decay, 
"and  then  you  would  think  me  all  lost  and  gone. 
But  still  there  might  be  youth  underneath,  for  one 
that  really  loved  me  to  see.  Ah,  Septimius  Felton ! 
such  love  as  would  see  with  ever-new  eyes  is  the  true 
love."  And  she  ran  away  and  left  him  suddenly,  and 
Robert  Hagburn  departing  at  the  same  time,  this  little 
knot  of  three  was  dissolved,  and  Septimius  went  along 
the  wayside  wall,  thoughtfully,  as  was  his  wont,  to 
his  own  dwelling.  He  had  stopped  for  some  moments 
on  the  threshold,  vaguely  enjoying,  it  is  probable,  the 
light  and  warmth  of  the  new  spring  day  and  the  sweet 
air,  which  was  somewhat  unwonted  to  the  young  man, 
because  he  was  accustomed  to  spend  much  of  his  day 
in  thought  and  study  within  doors,  and,  indeed,  like 
most  studious  young  men,  was  overfond  of  the  fireside, 
and  of  making  life  as  artificial  as  he  could,  by  fireside 
heat  and  lamplight,  in  order  to  suit  it  to  the  artificial, 
intellectual,  and  moral  atmosphere  which  he  derived 
from  books,  instead  of  living  healthfully  in  the  open 
air,  and  among  his  fellow-beings.  Still  he  felt  the 
pleasure  of  being  warmed  through  by  this  natural 
heat,  and  though  blinking  a  little  from  its  superfluity, 
could  not  but  confess  an  enjoyment  and  cheerfulness 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  11 

in  this  flood  of  morning  light  that  came  aslant  the 
hillside.  While  he  thus  stood,  he  felt  a  friendly  hand 
laid  upon  his  shoulder,  and  looking  up,  there  was  the 
minister  of  the  village,  the  old  friend  of  Septimius,  to 
whose  advice  and  aid  it  was  owing  that  Septimius  had 
followed  his  instincts  by  going  to  college,  instead  of 
spending  a  thwarted  and  dissatisfied  life  in  the  field 
that  fronted  the  house.  He  was  a  man  of  middle  age, 
or  little  beyond,  of  a  sagacious,  kindly  aspect;  the 
experience,  the  lifelong,  intimate  acquaintance  with 
many  concerns  of  his  people  being  more  apparent  in 
him  than  the  scholarship  for  which  he  had  been  early 
distinguished.  A  tanned  man,  like  one  who  labored 
in  his  own  grounds  occasionally ;  a  man  of  homely, 
plain  address,  which,  when  occasion  called  for  it,  he 
could  readily  exchange  for  the  polished  manner  of 
one  who  had  seen  a  more  refined  world  than  this 
about  him. 

"  Well,  Septimius,"  said  the  minister,  kindly,  "  have 
you  yet  come  to  any  conclusion  about  the  subject  of 
which  we  have  been  talking  1 " 

"  Only  so  far,  sir,"  replied  Septimius,  "  that  I  find 
myself  every  day  less  inclined  to  take  up  the  profes 
sion  which  I  have  had  in  view  so  many  years.  I  do 
not  think  myself  fit  for  the  sacred  desk." 

"  Surely  not ;  no  one  is,"  replied  the  clergyman ; 
"but  if  I  may  trust  my  own  judgment,  you  have  at 
least  many  of  the  intellectual  qualifications  that  should 
adapt  you  to  it.  There  is  something  of  the  Puritan 
character  in  you,  Septimius,  derived  from  holy  men 
among  your  ancestors ;  as,  for  instance,  a  deep,  brood- 


12  SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON. 

ing  turn,  such  as  befits  that  heavy  brow ;  a  dis 
position  to  meditate  on  things  hidden ;  a  turn  for 
meditative  inquiry ;  —  all  these  things,  with  grace  to 
boot,  mark  you  as  the  germ  of  a  man  who  might  do 
God  service.  Your  reputation  as  a  scholar  stands 
high  at  college.  You  have  not  a  turn  for  worldly 
business." 

"Ah,  but,  sir,"  said  Septimius,  casting  down  his 
heavy  brows,  "  I  lack  something  within." 

"Faith,  perhaps,"  replied  the  minister;  "at  least, 
you  think  so." 

"  Cannot  I  know  it  1 "  asked  Septimius. 

"  Scarcely,  just  now,"  said  his  friend.  "  Study  for 
the  ministry ;  bind  your  thoughts  to  it  ;  pray ;  ask  a 
belief,  and  you  will  soon  find  you  have  it.  Doubts 
may  occasionally  press  in;  and  it  is  so  with  every 
clergyman.  But  your  prevailing  mood  will  be  faith." 

"It  has  seemed  to  me,"  observed  Septimius,  "that 
it  is  not  the  prevailing  mood,  the  most  common  one, 
that  is  to  be  trusted.  This  is  habit,  formality,  the 
shallow  covering  which  we  close  over  what  is  real,  and 
seldom  suffer  to  be  blown  aside.  But  it  is  the  snake- 
like  doubt  that  thrusts  out  its  head,  which  gives  us  a 
glimpse  of  reality.  Surely  such  moments  are  a  hun 
dred  times  as  real  as  the  dull,  quiet  moments  of  faith, 
or  what  you  call  such." 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  the  minister;  "yet  to  a 
youth  of  your  frame  of  character,  of  your  ability  I  will 
say,  and  your  requisition  for  something  profound  in 
the  grounds  of  your  belief,  it  is  not  unusual  to  meet 
this  trouble.  Men  like  you  have  to  fight  for  their 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  13 

faith.  They  fight  in  the  first  place  to  win  it,  and 
ever  afterwards  to  hold  it.  The  Devil  tilts  with  them 
daily,  and  often  seems  to  win." 

"Yes;  but,"  replied  Septimius,  "he  takes  deadly 
weapons  now.  If  he  meet  me  with  the  cold  pure  steel 
of  a  spiritual  argument,  I  might  win  or  lose,  and  still 
not  feel  that  all  was  lost ;  but  he  takes,  as  it  were,  a 
great  clod  of  earth,  massive  rocks  and  mud,  soil  and 
dirt,  and  flings  it  at  me  overwhelmingly;  so  that  I 
am  buried  under  it." 

"  How  is  that  ? "  said  the  minister.  "  Tell  me  more 
plainly." 

"  May  it  not  be  posssible,"  asked  Septimius,  "  to 
have  too  profound  a  sense  of  the  marvellous  con 
trivance  and  adaptation  of  this  material  world  to 
require  or  believe  in  anything  spiritual  ?  How  won 
derful  it  is  to  see  it  all  alive  on  this  spring  day,  all 
growing,  budding !  Do  we  exhaust  it  in  our  little 
life  1  Not  so  ;  not  in  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  lives. 
The  whole  race  of  man,  living  from  the  beginning  of 
time,  have  not,  in  all  their  number  and  multiplicity 
and  in  all  their  duration,  come  in  the  least  to  know 
the  world  they  live  in !  And  how  is  this  rich  world 
thrown  away  upon  us,  because  we  live  in  it  such  a 
moment !  What  mortal  work  has  ever  been  done 
since  the  world  began !  Because  we  have  no  time. 
No  lesson  is  taught.  We  are  snatched  away  from 
our  study  before  we  have  learned  the  alphabet.  As 
the  world  now  exists,  I  confess  it  to  you  frankly,  my 
dear  pastor  and  instructor,  it  seems  to  me  all  a 
failure,  because  we  do  not  live  long  enough."  4J 


14  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  But  the  lesson  is  carried  on  in  another  state  of 
being!" 

"  Not  the  lesson  that  we  begin  here,"  said  Sep 
timius.  "  We  might  as  well  train  a  child  in  a  primeval 
forest,  to  teach  him  how  to  live  in  a  European  court. 
No,  the  fall  of  man,  which  Scripture  tells  us  of,  seems 
to  me  to  have  its  operation  in  this  grievous  short 
ening  of  earthly  existence,  so  that  our  life  here  at 
all  is  grown  ridiculous." 

"  Well,  Septimius,"  replied  the  minister,  sadly,  yet 
not  as  one  shocked  by  what  he  had  never  heard 
before,  "I  must  leave  you  to  struggle  through  this 
form  of  unbelief  as  best  you  may,  knowing  that 
it  is  by  your  own  efforts  that  you  must  come 
to  the  other  side  of  this  slough.  We  will  talk  fur 
ther  another  time.  You  are  getting  worn  out,  my 
young  friend,  with  much  study  and  anxiety.  It  were 
well  for  yon  to  live  more,  for  the  present,  in  this 
earthly  life  that  you  prize  so  highly.  Cannot  you 
interest  yourself  in  the  state  of  this  country,  in  this 
coming  strife,  the  voice  of  which  now  sounds  so 
hoarsely  and  so  near  us  1  Come  out  of  your  thoughts 
and  breathe  another  air." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Septimius. 

"  Do,"  said  the  minister,  extending  his  hand  to 
him,  "  and  in  a  little  time  you  will  find  the  change." 

He  shook  the  young  man's  hand  kindly,  and  took 
his  leave,  while  Septimius  entered  his  house,  and 
turning  to  the  right  sat  down  in  his  study,  where, 
before  the  fireplace,  stood  the  table  with  books  and 
papers.  On  the  shelves  around  the  low-studded  walls 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  15 

were  more  books,  few  in  number  but  of  an  erudite 
appearance,  many  of  them  having  descended  to  him 
from  learned  ancestors,  and  having  been  brought  to 
light  by  himself  after  long  lying  in  dusty  closets ; 
works  of  good  and  learned  divines,  whose  wisdom  he 
had  happened,  by  help  of  the  Devil,  to  turn  to  mis 
chief,  reading  them  by  the  light  of  hell-fire.  For, 
indeed,  Septimius  had  but  given  the  clergyman  the 
merest  partial  glimpse  of  his  state  of  mind.  He 
was  not  a  new  beginner  in  doubt ;  but,  on  the  con 
trary,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  never  been  other 
than  a  doubter  and  questioner,  even  in  his  boyhood ; 
believing  nothing,  although  a  thin  veil  of  reverence 
had  kept  him  from  questioning  some  things.  And 
now  the  new,  strange  thought  of  the  sufficiency  of 
the  world  for  man,  if  man  were  only  sufficient  for 
that,  kept  recurring  to  him ;  and  with  it  came  a  cer 
tain  sense,  which  he  had  been  conscious  of  before, 
that  he,  at  least,  might  never  die.  The  feeling  was 
not  peculiar  to  Septimius.  It  is  an  instinct,  the 
meaning  of  which  is  mistaken.  We  have  strongly 
within  us  the  sense  of  an  undying  principle,  and  we 
transfer  that  true  sense  to  this  life  and  to  the  body, 
instead  of  interpreting  it  justly  as  the  promise  of 
spiritual  immortality. 

So  Septimius  looked  up  out  of  his  thoughts,  and 
said  proudly  :  "  Why  should  I  die  1  I  cannot  die, 
if  worthy  to  live.  What  if  I  should  say  this  moment 
that  I  will  not  die,  not  till  ages  hence,  not  till  the 
world  is  exhausted  1  Let  other  men  die,  if  they 
choose  or  yield  ;  let  him  that  is  strong  enough  live  !  " 


16  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

After  this  flush  of  heroic  mood,  however,  the  glow 
subsided,  and  poor  Septimius  spent  the  rest  of  the 
day,  as  was  his  wont,  poring  over  his  books,  in  which 
all  the  meanings  seemed  dead  and  mouldy,  and  like 
pressed  leaves  (some  of  which  dropped  out  of  the 
books  as  he  opened  them),  brown,  brittle,  sapless ; 
so  even  the  thoughts,  which  when  the  writers  had 
gathered  them  seemed  to  them  so  brightly  colored 
and  full  of  life.  Then  he  began  to  see  that  there 
must  have  been  some  principle  of  life  left  out  of 
the  book,  so  that  these  gathered  thoughts  lacked 
something  that  had  given  them  their  only  value. 
Then  he  suspected  that  the  way  truly  to  live  and 
answer  the  purposes  of  life  was  not  to  gather  up 
thoughts  into  books,  where  they  grew  so  dry,  but 
to  live  and  still  be  going  about,  full  of  green  wisdom, 
ripening  ever,  not  in  maxims  cut  and  dry,  but  a 
wisdom  ready  for  daily  occasions,  like  a  living  foun 
tain  ;  and  that  to  be  this,  it  was  necessary  to  exist 
long  on  earth,  drink  in  all  its  lessons,  and  not  to 
die  on  the  attainment  of  some  smattering  of  truth; 
but  to  live  all  the  more  for  that ;  and  apply  it  to 
mankind,  and  increase  it  thereby. 

Everything  drifted  towards  the  strong,  strange 
eddy  into  which  his  mind  had  been  drawn  :  all  his 
thoughts  set  hitherward. 

So  he  sat  brooding  in  his  study  until  the  shrill- 
voiced  old  woman  —  an  aunt,  who  was  his  house 
keeper  and  domestic  ruler  —  called  him  to  dinner,  — 
a  frugal  dinner,  —  and  chided  him  for  seeming  inat 
tentive  to  a  dish  of  early  dandelions  which  she  had 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  17 

gathered  for  him ;  but  yet  tempered  her  severity  with 
respect  for  the  future  clerical  rank  of  her  nephew, 
and  for  his  already  being  a  bachelor  of  arts.  The 
old  woman's  voice  spoke  outside  of  Septimius,  ram 
bling  away,  and  he  paying  little  heed,  till  at  last 
dinner  was  over,  and  Septimius  drew  back  his  chair, 
about  to  leave  the  table. 

"Nephew  Septimius,"  said  the  old  woman,  "you 
began  this  meal  to-day  without  asking  a  blessing,  you 
get  up  from  it  without  giving  thanks,  and  you  soon 
to  be  a  minister  of  the  Word." 

"  God  bless  the  meat,"  replied  Septimius  (by  way 
of  blessing),  "  and  make  it  strengthen  us  for  the  life 
he  means  us  to  bear.  Thank  God  for  our  food," 
he  added  (by  way  of  grace),  "  and  may  it  become 
a  portion  in  us  of  an  immortal  body." 

"  That  sounds  good,  Septimius,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  Ah  !  you  '11  be  a  mighty  man  in  the  pulpit,  and 
worthy  to  keep  up  the  name  of  your  great-grand 
father,  who,  they  say,  made  the  leaves  wither  on 
a  tree  with  the  fierceness  of  his  blast  against  a 
sin.  Some  say,  to  be  sure,  it  was  an  early  frost  that 
helped  him." 

"  I  never  heard  that  before,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said 
Septimius. 

"I  warrant  you  no,"  replied  his  aunt.  "A  man 
dies,  and  his  greatness  perishes  as  if  it  had  never 
been,  and  people  remember  nothing  of  him  only 
when  they  see  his  gravestone  over  his  old  dry  bones, 
and  say  he  was  a  good  man  in  his  day." 

"What  truth  there  is  in  Aunt  Keziah's  words!" 

B 


18  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

exclaimed  Septimius,  "  And  how  I  hate  the  thought 
and  anticipation  of  that  contemptuous  appreciation 
of  a  man  after  his  death  !  Every  living  man  tri 
umphs  over  every  dead  one,  as  he  lies,  poor  and 
helpless,  under  the  mould,  a  pinch  of  dust,  a  heap 
of  bones,  an  evil  odor !  I  hate  the  thought !  It 
shall  not  be  so !  " 

It  was  strange  how  every  little  incident  thus 
brought  him  back  to  that  one  subject  which  was 
taking  so  strong  hold  of  his  mind;  every  avenue  led 
thitherward ;  and  he  took  it  for  an  indication  that 
nature  had  intended,  by  innumerable  ways,  to  point 
out  to  us  the  great  truth  that  death  was  an  alien 
misfortune,  a  prodigy,  a  monstrosity,  into  which  man 
had  only  fallen  by  defect ;  and  that  even  now,  if  a 
man  had  a  reasonable  portion  of  his  original  strength 
in  him,  he  might  live  forever  and  spurn  death. 

Our  story  is  an  internal  one,  dealing  as  little  as 
possible  with  outward  events,  and  taking  hold  of  these 
only  where  it  cannot  be  helped,  in  order  by  means  of 
them  to  delineate  the  history  of  a  mind  bewildered  in 
certain  errors.  We  would  not  willingly,  if  we  could, 
give  a  lively  and  picturesque  surrounding  to  this 
delineation,  but  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  advert 
to  the  circumstances  of  the  time  in  which  this  inward 
history  was  passing.  We  will  say,  therefore,  that  that 
night  there  was  a  cry  of  alarm  passing  all  through  the 
succession  of  country  towns  and  rural  communities 
that  lay  around  Boston,  and  dying  away  towards  the 
coast  and  the  wilder  forest  borders.  Horsemen  gal 
loped  past  the  line  of  farm-houses  shouting  alarm ! 


SEPTIMIUS  FEiTON.  19 

alarm  !  There  were  stories  of  marching  troops  com 
ing  like  dreams  through  the  midnight.  Around  the 
little  rude  meeting-houses  there  was  here  and  there 
the  beat  of  a  drum,  and  the  assemblage  of  farmers 
with  their  weapons.  So  all  that  night  there  was 
marching,  there  was  mustering,  there  was  trouble ; 
and,  on  the  road  from  Boston,  a  steady  march  of 
soldiers'  feet  onward,  onward  into  the  land  whose  last 
warlike  disturbance  had  been  when  the  red  Indians 
trod  it. 

Septimius  heard  it,  and  knew,  like  the  rest,  that  it 
was  the  sound  of  coming  war.  "Fools  that  men 
are  !  "  said  he,  as  he  rose  from  bed  and  looked  out  at 
the  misty  stars;  "they  do  not  live  long  enough  to 
know  the  value  and  purport  of  life,  else  they  would 
combine  together  to  live  long,  instead  of  throwing 
away  the  lives  of  thousands  as  they  do.  And  what 
matters  a  little  tyranny  in  so  short  a  life?  What 
matters  a  form  of  government  for  such  ephemeral 
creatures  1 " 

As  morning  brightened,  these  sounds,  this  clamor,. 
—  or  something  that  was  in  the  air  and  caused  the 
clamor,  —  grew  so  loud  that  Septimius  seemed  to  feel 
it  even  in  his  solitude.  It  was  in  the  atmosphere,  — 
storm,  wild  excitement,  a  coming  deed.  Men  hur 
ried  along  the  usually  lonely  road  in  groups,  with 
weapons  in  their  hands,  —  the  old  fowling-piece  of 
seven-foot  barrel,  with  which  the  Puritans  had  shot 
ducks,  on  the  river  and  Walden  Pond;  the  heavy 
harquebus,  which  perhaps  had  levelled  one  of  King 
Philip's  Indians ;  the  old  King  gun,  that  blazed  away 


20  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

at  the  French  of  Louisburg  or  Quebec,  —  hunter,  hus 
bandman,  all  were  hurrying  each  other.  It  was  a 
good  time,  everybody  felt,  to  be  alive,  a  nearer  kin 
dred,  a  closer  sympathy  between  man  and  man ;  a 
sense  of  the  goodness  of  the  world,  of  the  sacredness 
of  country,  of  the  excellence  of  life ;  and  yet  its  slight 
account  compared  with  any  truth,  any  principle ;  the 
weighing  of  the  material  and  ethereal,  and  the  finding 
the  former  not  worth  considering,  when,  nevertheless, 
it  had  so  much  to  do  with  the  settlement  of  the  crisis. 
The  ennobling  of  brute  force ;  the  feeling  that  it  had 
its  godlike  side ;  the  drawing  of  heroic  breath  amid 
the  scenes  of  ordinary  life,  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  they 
had  all  been  transfigured  since  yesterday.  0,  high, 
heroic,  tremulous  juncture,  when  man  felt  himself 
almost  an  angel;  on  the  verge  of  doing  deeds  that 
outwardly  look  so  fiendish  !  0,  strange  rapture  of  the 
coming  battle  !  We  know  something  of  that  time 
now ;  we  that  have  seen  the  muster  of  the  village 
soldiery  on  the  meeting-house  green,  and  at  railway 
stations ;  and  heard  the  drum  and  fife,  and  seen  the 
farewells;  seen  the  familiar  faces  that  we  hardly 
knew,  now  that  we  felt  them  to  be  heroes ;  breathed 
higher  breath  for  their  sakes;  felt  our  eyes  moist 
ened  ;  thanked  them  in  our  souls  for  teaching  us  that 
nature  is  yet  capable  of  heroic  moments ;  felt  how  a 
great  impulse  lifts  up  a  people,  and  every  cold,  pas 
sionless,  indifferent  spectator,  —  lifts  him  up  into  re 
ligion,  and  makes  him  join  in  what  becomes  an  act  of 
devotion,  a  prayer,  when  perhaps  he  but  half  approves. 
Septimius  could  not  study  on  a  morning  like  this. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  21 

He  tried  to  say  to  himself  that  he  had  nothing  to 
do  with  this  excitement ;  that  his  studious  life  kept 
him  away  from  it ;  that  his  intended  profession  was 
that  of  peace ;  but  say  what  he  might  to  himself, 
there  was  a  tremor,  a  bubbling  impulse,  a  tingling  in 
his  ears,  —  the  page  that  he  opened  glimmered  and 
dazzled  before  him. 

"  Septimius !  Septimius  ! "  cried  Aunt  Keziah,  look 
ing  into  the  room,  "in  Heaven's  name,  are  you  going 
to  sit  here  to-day,  and  the  redcoats  coming  to  burn 
the  house  over  our  heads?  Must  I  sweep  you  out 
with  the  broomstick  ?  For  shame,  boy  !  for  shame  !  " 

"  Are  they  coming,  then,  Aunt  Keziah  1 "  asked  her 
nephew.  "  Well,  I  am  not  a  fighting-man." 

"Certain  they  are.  They  have  sacked  Lexington, 
and  slain  the  people,  and  burnt  the  meeting-house. 
That  concerns  even  the  parsons;  and  you  reckon 
yourself  among  them.  Go  out,  go  out,  I  say,  and 
learn  the  news!" 

Whether  moved  by  these  exhortations,  or  by  his 
own  stifled  curiosity,  Septimius  did  at  length  issue 
from  his  door,  though  with  that  reluctance  which 
hampers  and  impedes  men  whose  current  of  thought 
and  interest  runs  apart  from  that  of  the  world  in 
general;  but  forth  he  came,  feeling  strangely,  and 
yet  with  a  strong  impulse  to  fling  himself  headlong 
into  the  emotion  of  the  moment.  It  was  a  beautiful 
morning,  spring-like  and  summer-like  at  once.  If 
there  had  been  nothing  else  to  do  or  think  of,  such  a 
morning  was  enough  for  life  only  to  breathe  its  air 
and  be  conscious  of  its  inspiring  influence. 


22  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

Septimius  turned  along  the  road  towards  the  vil 
lage,  meaning  to  mingle  with  the  crowd  on  the  green, 
and  there  learn  all  he  could  of  the  rumors  that 
vaguely  filled  the  air,  and  doubtless  were  shaping 
themselves  into  various  forms  of  fiction. 

As  he  passed  the  small  dwelling  of  Rose  Garfield, 
she  stood  on  the  doorstep,  and  bounded  forth  a  little 
way  to  meet  him,  looking  frightened,  excited,  and  yet 
half  pleased,  but  strangely  pretty ;  prettier  than  ever 
before,  owing  to  some  hasty  adornment  or  other,  that 
she  would  never  have  succeeded  so  well  in  giving  to 
herself  if  she  had  had  more  time  to  do  it  in. 

"  Septimius  —  Mr.  Feltou,"  cried  she,  asking  infor 
mation  of  him  who,  of  all  men  in  the  neighborhood, 
knew  nothing  of  the  intelligence  afloat ;  but  it  showed 
a  certain  importance  that  Septimius  had  with  her. 
f(  Do  you  really  think  the  redcoats  are  coming  1  Ah, 
what  shall  we  do  1  What  shall  we  do  1  But  you  are 
not  going  to  the  village,  too,  and  leave  us  all  alone  1 " 

"  I  know  not  whether  they  are  coming  or  no,  Rose," 
said  Septimius,  stopping  to  admire  the  young  girl's 
fresh  beauty,  which  made  a  double  stroke  upon  him 
by  her  excitement,  and,  moreover,  made  her  twice  as 
free  with  him  as  ever  she  had  been  before ;  for  there 
is  nothing  truer  than  that  any  breaking  up  of  the 
ordinary  state  of  things  is  apt  to  shake  women  out  of 
their  proprieties,  break  down  barriers,  and  bring  them 
into  perilous  proximity  with  the  world.  "Are  you 
alone  here  ?  Had  you  not  better  take  shelter  in  the 
villager' 

"And  leave  my   poor,   bedridden  grandmother!" 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTQN.  23 

cried  Rose,  angrily.  "You  know  I  can't,  Septimius. 
But  I  suppose  I  am  in  no  danger.  Go  to  the  village, 
if  you  like." 

"  Where  is  Robert  Hagbura  ? "  asked  Septimiue. 

"  Gone  to  the  village  this  hour  past,  with  his  grand 
father's  old  firelock  on  his  shoulder,"  said  Rose  ;  "  he 
was  running  bullets  before  daylight." 

"  Rose,  I  will  stay  with  you,"  said  Septimms. 

"  0  gracious,  here  they  come,  I  'm  sure ! "  cried 
Rose,  "Look  yonder  at  the  dust.  Mercy!  a  man 
at  a  gallop  ! " 

In  fact,  along  the  road,  a  considerable  stretch  of 
which  was  visible,  they  heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs  and 
saw  a  little  cloud  of  dust  approaching  at  the  rate  of 
a  gallop,  and  disclosing,  as  it  drew  near,  a  hatless 
countryman  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  who,  bending  over  his 
horse's  neck,  applied  a  cart-whip  lustily  to  the  animal's 
flanks,  so  as  to  incite  him  to  most  unwonted  speed, 
At  the  same  time,  glaring  upon  Rose  and  Septimius, 
he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  shouted  in  a  strange,  high 
tone,  that  communicated  the  tremor  and  excitement 
of  the  shouter  to  each  auditor :  "  Alarum  !  alarum ! 
alarum  !  The  redcoats  !  The  redcoats  !  To  arms  ! 
alarum ! " 

And  trailing  this  sound  far  wavering  behind  him 
like  a  pennon,  the  eager  horseman  dashed  onward  to 
the  village. 

"  0  dear,  what  shall  we  do  1 "  cried  Rose,  her  eyes 
full  of  tears,  yet  dancing  with  excitement.  "  They 
are  coming  I  they  are  coming  I  I  hear  the  drum  and 
fife," 


24  SEPTIMIUS  HELTON. 

"  I  really  believe  they  are,"  said  Septimius,  his 
cheek  flushing  and  growing  pale,  not  with  fear,  but 
the  inevitable  tremor,  half  painful,  half  pleasurable, 
of  the  moment.  "Hark!  there  was  the  shrill  note 
of  a  fife.  Yes,  they  are  coming  ! " 

He  tried  to  persuade  Rose  to  hide  herself  in  the 
house ;  but  that  young  person  would  not  be  per 
suaded  to  do  so,  clinging  to  Septimius  in  a  way 
that  flattered  while  it  perplexed  him.  Besides,  with 
all  the  girl's  fright,  she  had  still  a  good  deal  of 
courage,  and  much  curiosity  too,  to  see  what  these 
redcoats  were  of  whom  she  heard  such  terrible 
stories. 

"Well,  well,  Rose,"  said  Septimius;  "I  doubt 
not  we  may  stay  here  without  danger,  —  you,  a 
woman,  and  I,  whose  profession  is  to  be  that  of 
peace  and  good-will  to  all  men.  They  cannot,  what 
ever  is  said  of  them,  be  on  an  errand  of  massacre. 
We  will  stand  here  quietly ;  and,  seeing  that  we 
do  not  fear  them,  they  will  understand  that  we 
mean  them  no  harm." 

They  stood,  accordingly,  a  little  in  front  of  the 
door  by  the  well-curb,  and  soon  they  saw  a  heavy 
cloud  of  dust,  from  amidst  which  shone  bayonets ; 
and  anon,  a  military  band,  which  had  hitherto  been 
silent,  struck  up,  with  drum  and  fife,  to  which  the 
tramp  of  a  thousand  feet  fell  in  regular  order ;  then 
came  the  column,  moving  massively,  and  the  red 
coats  who  seemed  somewhat  wearied  by  a  long  night- 
march,  dusty,  with  bedraggled  gaiters,  covered  with 
sweat  which  had  run  down  from  their  powdered  locks. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  25 

Nevertheless,'  these  ruddy,  lusty.  Englishmen  marched 
stoutly,  as  men  that  needed  only  a  half-hour's  rest, 
a  good  breakfast,  and  a  pot  of  beer  apiece,  to  make 
them  ready  to  face  the  world.  Nor  did  their  faces 
look  anywise  rancorous;  but  at  most,  only  heavy, 
cloddish,  good-natured,  and  humane. 

"  0  heavens,  Mr.  Felton  !  "  whispered  Rose,  "  why 
should  we  shoot  these  men,  or  they  us  1  they  look 
kind,  if  homely.  Each  of  them  has  a  mother  and 
sisters,  I  suppose,  just  like  our  men." 

"It  is  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world  that  we 
can  think  of  killing  them,"  said  Septimius.  "  Human 
life  is  so  precious." 

Just  as  they  were  passing  the  cottage,  a  halt  was 
called  by  the  commanding  officer,  in  order  that  some 
little  rest  might  get  the  troops  into  a  better  condi 
tion  and  give  them  breath  before  entering  the  village, 
where  it  was  important  to  make  as  imposing  a  show 
as  possible.  During  this  brief  stop,  some  of  the  sol 
diers  approached  the  well-curb,  near  which  Rose  and 
Septimius  were  standing,  and  let  down  the  bucket 
to  satisfy  their  thirst.  A  young  officer,  a  petulant 
boy,  extremely  handsome,  and  of  gay  and  buoyant 
deportment,  also  came  up. 

"  Get  me  a  cup,  pretty  one,"  said  he,  patting  Rose's 
cheek  with  great  freedom,  though  it  was  somewhat 
and  indefinitely  short  of  rudeness ;  "  a  mug,  or  some 
thing  to  drink  out  of,  and  you  shah1  have  a  kiss  for 
your  pains." 

"  Stand  off,  sir  ! "  said  Septimius,  fiercely ;  "it  is 
a  coward's  part  to  insult  a  woman." 


26  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"I  intend  no  insult  in  this,"  replied  the  handsome 
young  officer,  suddenly  snatching  a  kiss  from  Rose, 
before  she  could  draw  back.  "  And  if  you  think  it 
fio,  my  good  friend,  you  had  better  take  your  weapon 
and  get  as  much  satisfaction  as  you  can,  shooting  at 
me  from  behind  a  hedge." 

Before  Septimius  could  reply  or  act,  —  and,  in 
truth,  the  easy  presumption  of  the  young  Englishman 
made  it  difficult  for  him,  an  inexperienced  recluse  as 
he  was,  to  know  what  to  do  or  say,  —  the  drum  beat 
a  little  tap,  recalling  the  soldiers  to  their  rank  and 
to  order.  The  young  officer  hastened  back,  with  a 
laughing  glance  at  Rose  and  a  light,  contemptuous 
look  of  defiance  at  Septimius,  the  drums  rattling  out 
in  full  beat,  and  the  troops  marched  on. 

"  What  impertinence  ! "  said  Rose,  whose  indignant 
color  made  her  look  pretty  enough  almost  to  excuse 
the  offence. 

It  is  not  easy  to  see  how  Septimius  could  have 
shielded  her  from  the  insult ;  and  yet  he  felt  incon 
ceivably  outraged  and  humiliated  at  the  thought 
that  this  offence  had  occurred  while  Rose  was  under 
his  protection,  and  he  responsible  for  her.  Besides, 
somehow  or  other,  he  was  angry  with  her  for  having 
undergone  the  wrong,  though  certainly  most  unrea 
sonably  ,  for  the  whole  thing  was  quicker  done  than 
said. 

"You  had  better  go  into  the  house  now,  Rose," 
said  he,  "  and  see  to  your  bedridden  grandmother." 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  Septimius  ?  "  asked  she. 

"  Perhaps  I   will  house  myself,    also,"  he  replied. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  27 

"  Perhaps  take  yonder  proud  redcoat's  counsel,  and 
shoot  him  behind  a  hedge." 

"  But  not  kill  him  outright ;  I  suppose  he  has  a 
mother  and  a  sweetheart,  the  handsome  young  offi 
cer,"  murmured  Rose  pityingly  to  herself. 

Septimius  went  into  his  house,  and  sat  in  his  study 
for  some  hours,  in  that  unpleasant  state  of  feeling 
which  a  man  of  brooding  thought  is  apt  to  experience 
when  the  world  around  him  is  in  a  state  of  intense 
action,  which  he  finds  it  impossible  to  sympathize 
with.  There  seemed  to  be  a  stream  rushing  past  him, 
by  which,  even  if  he  plunged  into  the  midst  of  it,  he 
could  not  be  wet.  He  felt  himself  strangely  ajar 
with  the  human  race,  and  would  have  given  much 
either  to  be  in  full  accord  with  it,  or  to  be  separated 
from  it  forever. 

"  I  am  dissevered  from  it.  It  is  my  doom  to  be 
only  a  spectator  of  life ;  to  look  on  as  one  apart  from 
it.  Is  it  not  well,  therefore,  that,  sharing  none  of  its 
pleasures  and  happiness,  I  should  be  free  of  its  fatal 
ities,  its  brevity?  How  cold  I  am  now,  while  this 
whirlpool  of  public  feeling  is  eddying  around  me.  It 
is  as  if  I  had  not  been  born  of  woman  !  " 

Thus  it  was,  that,  drawing  wild  inferences  from 
phenomena  of  the  mind  and  heart  common  to  people 
who,  by  some  morbid  action  within  themselves,  are 
set  ajar  with  the  world,  Septimius  continued  still  to 
come  round  to  that  strange  idea  of  undyingness  which 
had  recently  taken  possession  of  him.  And  yet  he 
was  wrong  in  thinking  himself  cold,  and  that  he  felt 
no  sympathy  in  the  fever  of  patriotism  that  was 


28 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 


throbbing  through  his  countrymen.  He  was  restless 
as  a  flame ;  he  could  not  fix  his  thoughts  upon  his 
book ;  he  could  not  sit  in  his  chair,  but  kept  pacing 
to  and  fro,  while  through  the  open  window  came 
noises  to  which  his  imagination  gave  diverse  interpre 
tation.  Now  it  was  a  distant  drum ;  now  shouts ; 
by  and  by  there  came  the  rattle  of  musketry,  that 
seemed  to  proceed  from  some  point  more  distant 
than  the  village ;  a  regular  roll,  then  a  ragged  volley, 
then  scattering  shots.  Unable  any  longer  to  preserve 
this  unnatural  indifference,  Septimius  snatched  his 
gun,  and,  rushing  out  of  the  house,  climbed  the  abrupt 
hillside  behind,  whence  he  could  see  a  long  way 
towards  the  village,  till  a  slight  bend  hid  the  uneven 
road.  It  was  quite  vacant,  not  a  passenger  upon  it. 
But  there  seemed  to  be  confusion  in  that  direction ; 
an  unseen  and  inscrutable  trouble,  blowing  thence 
towards  him,  intimated  by  vague  sounds,  —  by  no 
sounds.  Listening  eagerly,  however,  he  at  last  fancied 
a  mustering  sound  of  the  drum ;  then  it  seemed  as  if 
it  were  coming  towards  him ;  while  in  advance  rode 
another  horseman,  the  same  kind  of  headlong  mes 
senger,  in  appearance,  who  had  passed  the  house  with 
his  ghastly  cry  of  alarum ;  then  appeared  scattered 
countrymen,  with  guns  in  their  hands,  straggling 
across  fields.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  regular 
array  of  British  soldiers,  filling  the  road  with  their 
front,  and  marching  along  as  firmly  as  ever,  though  at 
a  quick  pace,  while  he  fancied  that  the  officers  looked 
watchfully  around.  As  he  looked,  a  shot  rang  sharp 
from  the  hillside  towards  the  village ;  the  smoke 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  29 

curled  up,  and  Septimius  saw  a  man  stagger  and  fall 
in  the  midst  of  the  troops.  Septimius  shuddered ;  it 
was  so  like  murder  that  he  really  could  not  tell 
the  difference ;  his  knees  trembled  beneath  him ;  his 
breath  grew  short,  not  with  terror,  but  with  some 
new  sensation  of  awe. 

Another  shot  or  two  came  almost  simultaneously 
from  the  wooded  height,  but  without  any  effect  that 
Septimius  could  perceive.  Almost  at  the  same  mo 
ment  a  company  of  the  British  soldiers  wheeled  from 
the  main  body,  and,  dashing  out  of  the  road,  climbed 
the  hill,  and  disappeared  into  the  wood  and  shrubbery 
that  veiled  it.  There  were  a  few  straggling  shots,  by 
whom  fired,  or  with  what  effect,  was  invisible,  and 
meanwhile  the  main  body  of  the  enemy  proceeded 
along  the  road.  They  had  now  advanced  so  nigh  that 
Septimius  was  strangely  assailed  by  the  idea  that  he 
might,  with  the  gun  in  his  hand,  fire  right  into  the 
midst  of  them,  and  select  any  man  of  that  now  hostile 
band  to  be  a  victim.  How  strange,  how  strange  it  is, 
this  deep,  wild  passion  that  nature  has  implanted  in 
us  to  be  the  death  of  our  fellow-creatures,  and  which 
coexists  at  the  same  time  with  horror !  Septimius 
levelled  his  weapon,  and  drew  it  up  again ;  he  marked 
a  mounted  officer,  who  seemed  to  be  in  chief  com 
mand,  whom  he  knew  that  he  could  kill.  But  no  ! 
he  had  really  no  such  purpose.  Only  it  was  such  a 
temptation.  And  in  a  moment  the  horse  would  leap, 
the  officer  would  fall  and  lie  there  in  the  dust  of  the 
road,  bleeding,  gasping,  breathing  in  spasms,  breathing 
no  more. 


30  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

While  the  young  man,  in  these  unusual  circum 
stances,  stood  watching  the  marching  of  the  troops, 
he  heard  the  noise  of  rustling  boughs,  and  the  voices 
of  men,  and  soon  understood  that  the  party,  which  he 
had  seen  separate  itself  from  the  main  body  and 
ascend  the  hill,  was  now  marching  along  on  the 
hill-top,  the  long  ridge  which,  with  a  gap  or  two, 
extended  as  much  as  a  mile  from  the  village.  One 
of  these  gaps  occurred  a  little  way  from  where  Sep- 
timius  stood.  They  were  acting  as  flank  guard,  to 
prevent  the  uproused  people  from  coming  so  close  to 
the  main  body  as  to  fire  upon  it.  He  looked  and  saw 
that  the  detachment  of  British  was  plunging  down  one 
side  of  this  gap,  with  intent  to  ascend  the  other,  so 
that  they  would  pass  directly  over  the  spot  where  he 
stood ;  a  slight  removal  to  one  side,  among  the  small 
bushes,  would  conceal  him.  He  stepped  aside  accord 
ingly,  and  from  his  concealment,  not  without  drawing 
quicker  breaths,  beheld  the  party  draw  near.  They 
were  more  intent  upon  the  space  between  them  and 
the  main  body  than  upon  the  dense  thicket  of  birch- 
trees,  pitch-pines,  sumach,  and  dwarf  oaks,  which, 
scarcely  yet  beginning  to  bud  into  leaf,  lay  on  the 
other  side,  and  in  which  Septimius  lurked. 

[Describe  how  their  faces  affected  him,  passing  so 
near;  how  strange  they  seemed J\ 

They  had  all  passed,  except  an  officer  who  brought 
up  the  rear,  and  who  had  perhaps  been  attracted  by 
some  slight  motion  that  Septimius  made,  —  some 
rustle  in  the  thicket;  for  he  stopped,  fixed  his  eyes 
piercingly  towards  the  spot  where  he  stood,  and 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  31 

levelled  a  light  fusil  which  he  carried.  "  Stand  out, 
or  I  shoot,"  said  he. 

Not  to  avoid  the  shot,  but  because  his  manhood 
felt  a  call  upon  it  not  to  skulk  in  obscurity  from  an 
open  enemy,  Septimius  at  once  stood  forth,  and  con 
fronted  the  same  handsome  young  officer  with  whom 
those  fierce  words  had  passed  on  account  of  his 
rudeness  to  Rose  Garfield.  Septimius's  fierce  Indian 
blood  stirred  in  him,  and  gave  a  murderous  excite 
ment. 

"  Ah,  it  is  you  ! "  said  the  young  officer,  with  a 
haughty  smile.  "  You  meant,  then,  to  take  up  with 
my  hint  of  shooting  at  me  from  behind  a  hedge? 
This  is  better.  Come,  we  have  in  the  first  place  the 
great  quarrel  between  me  a  king's  soldier,  and  you  a 
rebel ;  next  our  private  affair,  on  account  of  yonder 
pretty  girl.  Come,  let  us  take  a  shot  on  either 
score  !  " 

The  young  officer  was  so  handsome,  so  beautiful,  in 
budding  youth  ;  there  was  such  a  free,  gay  petulance 
in  his  manner ;  there  seemed  so  little  of  real  evil 
in  him;  he  put  himself  on  equal  ground  with  the 
rustic  Septimius  so  generously,  that  the  latter,  often 
so  morbid  and  sullen,  never  felt  a  greater  kind 
ness  for  fellow-man  than  at  this  moment  for  this 
youth. 

"I  have  no  enmity  towards  you,"  said  he;  "go  in 
peace." 

"  No  enmity  !  "  replied  the  officer.  "  Then  why 
were  you  here  with  your  gun  amongst  the  shrubbery  ? 
But  I  have  a  mind  to  do  my  first  deed  of  arms  on 


32  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

you ;  so  give  up  your  weapon,  and  come  with  me 
as  prisoner." 

"  A  prisoner  !  "  cried  Septimius,  that  Indian  fierce 
ness  that  was  in  him  arousing  itself,  and  thrusting 
up  its  malign  head  like  a  snake.  "  Never !  If  you 
would  have  me,  you  must  take  my  dead  body." 

"  Ah,  well,  you  have  pluck  in  you,  I  see,  only  it 
needs  a  considerable  stirring.  Come,  this  is  a  good 
quarrel  of  ours.  Let  us  fight  it  out.  Stand  where 
you  are,  and  I  will  give  the  word  of  command.  Now ; 
ready,  aim,  fire  ! " 

As  the  young  officer  spoke  the  three  last  words, 
in  rapid  succession,  he  and  his  antagonist  brought 
their  firelocks  to  the  shoulder,  aimed  and  fired.  Sep 
timius  felt,  as  it  were,  the  sting  of  a  gadfly  passing 
across  his  temple,  as  the  Englishman's  bullet  grazed 
it ;  but,  to  his  surprise  and  horror  (for  the  whole 
thing  scarcely  seemed  real  to  him),  he  saw  the  officer 
give  a  great  start,  drop  his  fusil,  and  stagger  against 
a  tree,  with  his  hand  to  his  breast.  He  endeavored 
to  support  himself  erect,  but,  failing  in  the  effort, 
beckoned  to  Septimius. 

"  Come,  my  good  friend,"  said  he,  with  that  play 
ful,  petulant  smile  flitting  over  his  face  again.  "  It 
is  my  first  and  last  fight.  Let  me  down  as  softly  as 
you  can  on  mother  earth,  the  mother  of  both  you 
and  me ;  so  we  are  brothers ;  and  this  may  be  a 
brotherly  act,  though  it  does  not  look  so,  nor  feel  so. 
Ah  !  that  was  a  twinge  indeed  ! " 

''Good  God !"  exclaimed  Septimius.  "I  had  no  thought 
of  this,  no  malice  towards  you  in  the  least ! " 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  33 

"  Nor  I  towards  you,"  said  the  young  man.  "  It 
was  boy's  play,  and  the  end  of  it  is  that  I  die  a 
boy,  instead  of  living  forever,  as  perhaps  I  otherwise 
might." 

"  Living  forever !  "  repeated  Septimius,  his  atten 
tion  arrested,  even  at  that  breathless  moment,  by 
words  that  rang  so  strangely  on  what  had  been  his 
brooding  thought. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  have  lost  my  chance,"  said  the  young 
officer.  Then,  as  Septimius  helped  him  to  lie  against 
the  little  hillock  of  a  decayed  and  buried  stump, 
"Thank  you;  thank  you.  If  you  could  only  call 
back  one  of  my  comrades  to  hear  my  dying  words. 
But  I  forgot.  You  have  killed  me,  and  they  would 
take  your  life." 

In  truth,  Septimius  was  so  moved  and  so  astonished, 
that  he  probably  would  have  called  back  the  young 
man's  comrades,  had  it  been  possible ;  but,  marching 
at  the  swift  rate  of  men  in  peril,  they  had  already 
gone  far  onward,  in  their  passage  through  the  shrub 
bery  that  had  ceased  to  rustle  behind  them. 

"  Yes ;  I  must  die  here  ! "  said  the  young  man, 
with  a  forlorn  expression,  as  of  a  school-boy  far  away 
from  home,  "and  nobody  to  see  me  now  but  you, 
who  have  killed  me.  Could  you  fetch  me  a  drop  of 
water1?  I  have  a  great  thirst." 

Septimius,  in  a  dream  of  horror  and  pity,  rushed 
down  the  hillside  ;  the  house  was  empty,  for  Aunt 
Keziah  had  gone  for  shelter  and  sympathy  to  some 
of  the  neighbors.  He  filled  a  jug  with  cold  water, 
and  hurried  back  to  the  hill-top,  finding  the  young 

2*  C 


34  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

officer  looking  paler  and  more  deathlike  within  those 
few  moments. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  enemy  that  was,  my  friend  that 
is,"  murmured  he,  faintly  smiling.  "  Methinks,  next 
to  the  father  and  mother  that  gave  us  birth,  the 
next  most  intimate  relation  must  be  with  the  man 
that  slays  us,  who  introduces  us  to  the  mysterious 
world  to  which  this  is  but  the  portal.  You  and  I 
are  singularly  connected,  doubt  it  not,  in  the  scenes 
of  the  unknown  world." 

"  0,  believe  me,"  cried  Septimius,  "  I  grieve  for  you 
like  a  brother  !  " 

"  I  see  it,  my  dear  friend,"  said  the  young  officer; 
"and  though  my  blood  is  on  your  hands,  I  forgive 
you  freely,  if  there  is  anything  to  forgive.  But  I  am 
dying,  and  have  a  few  words  to  say,  which  you  must 
hear.  You  have  slain  me  in  fair  fight,  and  my  spoils, 
according  to  the  rules  and  customs  of  warfare,  belong 
to  the  victor.  Hang  up  my  sword  and  fusil  over 
your  chimney-place,  and  tell  your  children,  twenty 
years  hence,  how  they  Were  won.  My  purse,  keep  it 
or  give  it  to  the  poor.  There  is  something  here,  next 
my  heart,  which  I  would  fain  have  sent  to  the  address 
which  I  will  give  you." 

Septimius,  obeying  his  directions,  took  from  his 
breast  a  miniature  that  hung  round  it ;  but,  on 
examination,  it  proved  that  the  bullet  had  passed 
directly  through  it,  shattering  the  ivory,  so  that  the 
woman's  face  it  represented  was  quite  destroyed. 

"  Ah  !  that  is  a  pity,"  said  the  young  man ;  and  yet 
Septimius  thought  that  there  was  something  light  and 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  35 

contemptuous  mingled  with  the  pathos  in  his  tones. 
"  Well,  but  send  it ;  caus6  it  to  be  transmitted, 
according  to  the  address," 

He  gave  Septimius,  and  made  him  take  down  on  a 
tablet  which  he  had  about  him,  the  name  of  a  hall 
in  one  of  the  midland  counties  of  England. 

"  Ah,  that  old  place,"  said  he,  "  with  its  oaks,  and 
its  lawn,  and  its  park,  and  its  Elizabethan  gables ! 
I  little  thought  I  should  die  here,  so  far  away,  in  this 
barren  Yankee  land.  Where  will  you  bury  me  1 " 

As  Septimius  hesitated  to  answer,  the  young  man 
continued  :  "I  would  like  to  have  lain  in  the  little 
old  church  at  Whitnash,  which  comes  up  before  me 
now,  with  its  low,  gray  tower,  and  the  old  yew-tree 
in  front,  hollow  with  age,  and  the  village  clustering 
about  it,  with  its  thatched  houses.  I  would  be  loath 
to  lie  in  one  of  your  Yankee  graveyards,  for  I  have  a 
distaste  for  them,  —  though  I  love  you,  my  slayer. 
Bury  me  here,  on  this  very  spot.  A  soldier  lies  best 
where  he  falls." 

"  Here,  in  secret  1 "  exclaimed  Septimius. 

"  Yes ;  there  is  no  consecration  in  your  Puritan 
burial-grounds,"  said  the  dying  youth,  some  of  that 
queer  narrowness  of  English  Church  ism  coming  into 
his  mind.  "  So  bury  me  here,  in  my  soldier's  dress. 
Ah !  and  my  watch  !  I  have  done  with  time,  and 
you,  perhaps,  have  a  long  lease  of  it ;  so  take  it,  not 
as  spoil,  but  as  my  parting  gift.  And  that  reminds 
me  of  one  other  thing.  Open  that  pocket-book  which 
you  have  in  your  hand." 

Septimius  did  so,  and  by  the  officer's  direction  took 


36  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

from  one  of  its  compartments  a  folded  paper,  closely 
written  in  a  crabbed  hand ;  it  was  considerably  worn 
in  the  outer  folds,  but  not  within.  There  was  also  a 
small  silver  key  in  the  pocket-book. 

"  I  leave  it  with  you,"  said  the  officer ;  "  it  was 
given  me  by  an  uncle,  a  learned  man  of  science,  who 
intended  me  great  good  by  what  he  there  wrote. 
Reap  the  profit,  if  you  can.  Sooth  to  say,  I  never 
read  beyond  the  first  lines  of  the  paper." 

Septimius  was  surprised,  or  deeply  impressed,  to  see 
that  through  this  paper,  as  well  as  through  the  min 
iature,  had  gone  his  fatal  bullet,  —  straight  through 
the  midst ;  and  some  of  the  young  man's  blood, 
saturating  his  dress,  had  wet  the  paper  all  over.  He 
hardly  thought  himself  likely  to  derive  any  good  from 
what  it  had  cost  a  human  life,  taken  (however  uncrim- 
inally)  by  his  own  hands,  to  obtain. 

"  Is  there  anything  more  that  I  can  do  for  you  ] " 
asked  he,  with  genuine  sympathy  and  sorrow,  as  he 
knelt  by  his  fallen  foe's  side. 

"Nothing,  nothing,  I  believe,"  said  he.  "There 
was  one  thing  I  might  have  confessed ;  if  there  were  a 
holy  man  here,  I  might  have  confessed,  and  asked  his 
prayers;  for  though  I  have  lived  few  years,  it  has 
been  long  enough  to  do  a  great  wrong.  But  I  will 
try  to  pray  in  my  secret  soul.  Turn  my  face  towards 
the  trunk  of  the  tree,  for  I  have  taken  my  last  look  at 
the  world.  There,  let  me  be  now." 

Septimius  did  as  the  young  man  requested,  and 
then  stood  leaning  against  one  of  the  neighboring 
pines,  watching  his  victim  with  a  tender  concern  r,i?at 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  37 

made  him  feel  as  if  the  convulsive  throes  that  passed 
through  his  frame  were  felt  equally  in  his  own.  There 
was  a  murmuring  from  the  youth's  lips  which  seemed 
to  Septimius  swift,  soft,  and  melancholy,  like  the 
voice  of  a  child  when  it  has  some  naughtiness  to 
confess  to  its  mother  at  bedtime ;  contrite,  pleading, 
yet  trusting.  So  it  continued  for  a  few  minutes; 
then  there  was  a  sudden  start  and  struggle,  as  if  he 
were  striving  to  rise ;  his  eyes  met  those  of  Septimius 
with  a  wild,  troubled  gaze,  but  as  the  latter  caught 
him  in  his  arms,  he  was  dead.  Septimius  laid  the 
body  softly  down  on  the  leaf-strewn  earth,  and  tried, 
as  he  had  heard  was  the  custom  with  the  dead,  to 
compose  the  features  distorted  by  the  dying  agony. 
He  then  flung  himself  on  the  ground  at  a  little  dis 
tance,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  reflections  suggested 
by  the  strange  occurrences  of  the  last  hour. 

He  had  taken  a  human  life;  and,  however  the 
circumstances  might  excuse  him,  —  might  make  the 
thing  even  something  praiseworthy,  and  that  would 
be  called  patriotic,  —  still,  it  was  not  at  once  that  a 
fresh  country  youth  could  see  anything  but  horror  in 
the  blood  with  which  his  hand  was  stained.  It  seemed 
so  dreadful  to  have  reduced  this  gay,  animated,  beau 
tiful  being  to  a  lump  of  dead  flesh  for  the  flies  to 
settle  upon,  and  which  in  a  few  hours  would  begin  to 
decay ;  which  must  be  put  forthwith  into  the  earth, 
lest  it  should  be  a  horror  to  men's  eyes ;  that  de 
licious  beauty  for  woman  to  love ;  that  strength  and 
courage  to  make  him  famous  among  men,  —  all  come 
to  nothing ;  all  probabilities  of  life  in  one  so  gifted ; 


38  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

the  renown,  the  position,  the  pleasures,  the  profits, 
the  keen  ecstatic  joy,  —  this  never  could  be  made  up, 
—  all  ended  quite ;  for  the  dark  doubt  descended 
upon  Septimius,  that,  because  of  the  very  fitness  that 
was  in  this  youth  to  enjoy  this  world,  so  much  the 
less  chance  was  there  of  his  being  Jit  for  any  other 
world.  What  could  it  do  for  him  there,  —  this  beau 
tiful  grace  and  elegance  of  feature,  —  where  there  was 
no  form,  nothing  tangible  nor  visible  ]  what  good  that 
readiness  and  aptness  for  associating  with  all  created 
things,  doing  his  part,  acting,  enjoying,  when,  under 
the  changed  conditions  of  another  state  of  being,  all 
this  adaptedness  would  fail1?  Had  he  been  gifted 
with  permanence  on  earth,  there  could  not  have  been 
a  more  admirable  creature  than  this  young  man  ;  but 
as  his  fate  had  turned  out,  he  was  a  mere  grub,  an 
illusion,  something  that  nature  had  held  out  in  mock 
ery,  and  then  withdrawn.  A  weed  might  grow  from 
his  dust  now ;  that  little  spot  on  the  barren  hill-top, 
where  he  had  desired  to  be  buried,  would  be  greener 
for  some  years  to  come,  and  that  was  all  the  differ 
ence.  Septimius  could  not  get  beyond  the  earth iness ; 
his  feeling  was  as  if,  by  an  act  of  violence,  he  had  for 
ever  cut  off  a  happy  human  existence.  And  such  was 
his  own  love  of  life  and  clinging  to  it,  peculiar  to 
dark,  sombre  natures,  and  which  lighter  and  gayer 
ones  can  never  know,  that  he  shuddered  at  his  deed, 
and  at  himself,  and  could  with  difficulty  bear  to  be 
alone  with  the  corpse  of  his  victim,  —  trembled  at  the 
thought  of  turning  his  face  towards  him. 

Yet  he  did  so,  because  he  could  not  endure  the 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  39 

imagination  that  the  dead  youth  was  turning  his  eyes 
towards  him  as  he  lay ;  so  he  came  and  stood  beside 
him,  looking  down  into  his  white,  upturned  face. 
But  it  was  wonderful !  What  a  change  had  come  over 
it  since,  only  a  few  moments  ago,  he  looked  at  that 
death-contorted  countenance  !  Now  there  was  a  high 
and  sweet  expression  upon  it,  of  great  joy  and  sur 
prise,  and  yet  a  quietude  diffused  throughout,  as  if 
the  peace  being  so  very  great  was  what  had  surprised 
him.  The  expression  was  like  a  light  gleaming  and 
glowing  within  him.  Septimius  had  often,  at  a  cer 
tain  space  of  time  after  sunset,  looking  westward,  seen 
a  living  radiance  in  the  sky,  —  the  last  light  of  the 
dead  day,  that  seemed  just  the  counterpart  of  this 
death-light  in  the  young  man's  face.  It  was  as  if  the 
youth  were  just  at  the  gate  of  heaven,  which,  swinging 
softly  open,  let  the  inconceivable  glory  of  the  blessed 
city  shine  upon  his  face,  and  kindle  it  up  with  gentle, 
undisturbing  astonishment  and  purest  joy.  It  was  an 
expression  contrived  by  God's  providence  to  comfort ;  to 
overcome  all  the  dark  auguries  that  the  physical  ugli 
ness  of  death  inevitably  creates,  and  to  prove,  by  the 
divine  glory  on  the  face,  that  the  ugliness  is  a  delusion. 
It  was  as  if  the  dead  man  himself  showed  his  face  out 
of  the  sky,  with  heaven's  blessing  on  it,  and  bade  the 
afflicted  be  of  good  cheer,  and  believe  in  immortality. 
Septimius  remembered  the  young  man's  injunctions 
to  bury  him  there,  on  the  hill,  without  uncovering  the 
body ;  and  though  it  seemed  a  sin  and  shame  to  cover 
up  that  beautiful  body  with  earth  of  the  grave,  and 
give  it  to  the  worm,  yet  he  resolved  to  obey. 


40  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

Be  it  confessed  that,  beautiful  as  the  dead  form 
looked,  and  guiltless  as  Septimius  must  be  held  in 
causing  his  death,  still  he  felt  as  if  he  should  be  eased 
when  it  was  under  the  ground.  He  hastened  down  to 
the  house,  and  brought  up  a  shovel  and  a  pickaxe,  and 
began  his  unwonted  task  of  grave-digging,  delving 
earnestly  a  deep  pit,  sometimes  pausing  in  his  toil, 
while  the  sweat-drops  poured  from  him,  to  look  at  the 
beautiful  clay  that  was  to  occupy  it.  Sometimes  he 
paused,  too,  to  listen  to  the  shots  that  pealed  in  the 
far  distance,  towards  the  east,  whither  the  battle  had 
long  since  rolled  out  of  reach  and  almost  out  of  hear 
ing.  It  seemed  to  have  gathered  about  itself  the 
whole  life  of  the  land,  attending  it  along  its  bloody 
course  in  a  struggling  throng  of  shouting,  shooting 
men,  so  still  and  solitary  was  everything  left  behind 
it.  It  seemed  the  very  midland  solitude  of  the  world 
where  Septimius  was  delving  at  the  grave.  He  and 
his  dead  were  alone  together,  and  he  was  going  to  put 
the  body  under  the  sod,  and  be  quite  alone. 

The  grave  was  now  deep,  and  Septimius  was  stoop 
ing  down  into  its  depths  among  dirt  and  pebbles, 
levelling  off  the  bottom,  which  he  considered  to  be 
profound  enough  to  hide  the  young  man's  mystery 
forever,  when  a  voice  spoke  above  him;  a  solemn, 
quiet  voice,  which  he  knew  well. 

"  Septimius  !    what  are  you  doing  here  1 " 

He  looked  up  and  saw  the  minister. 

"  I  have  slain  a  man  in  fair  fight,"  answered  he, 
"  and  am  about  to  bury  him  as  he  requested.  I  am 
glad  you  are  come.  You,  reverend  sir,  can  fitly  say  a 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  41 

prayer  at  his  obsequies.     I  am  glad  for  my  own  sake ; 
for  it  is  very  lonely  and  terrible  to  be  here." 

He  climbed  out  of  the  grave,  and,  in  reply  to  the 
minister's  inquiries,  communicated  to  him  the  events 
of  the  morning,  and  the  youth's  strange  wish  to  be 
buried  here,  without  having  his  remains  subjected  to 
the  hands  of  those  who  would  prepare  it  for  the  grave. 
The  minister  hesitated. 

"  At  an  ordinary  time,"  said  he,  "  such  a  singular 
request  would  of  course  have  to  be  refused.  Your 
own  safety,  the  good  and  wise  rules  that  make  it 
necessary  that  all  things  relating  to  death  and  burial 
should  be  done  publicly  and  in  order,  would  forbid  it." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Septimius ;  "  but,  it  may  be,  scores 
of  men  will  fall  to-day,  and  be  flung  into  hasty  graves 
without  funeral  rites ;  without  its  ever  being  known, 
perhaps,  what  mother  has  lost  her  son.  I  cannot  but 
think  that  I  ought  to  perform  the  dying  request  of 
the  youth  whom  I  have  slain.  He  trusted  in  me 
not  to  uncover  his  body  myself,  nor  to  betray  it  to 
the  hands  of  others." 

"  A  singular  request,"  said  the  good  minister,  gazing 
with  deep  interest  at  the  "beautiful  dead  face,  and 
.graceful,  slender,  manly  figure.  "What  could  have 
been  its  motive  ?  But  no  matter.  I  think,  Septimius, 
that  you  are  bound  to  obey  his  request;  indeed, 
having  promised  him,  nothing  short  of  an  impossi 
bility  should  prevent  your  keeping  your  faith.  Let 
us  lose  no  time,  then." 

With  few  but  deeply  solemn  rites  the  young  stran 
ger  was  laid  by  the  minister  and  the  youth  who  slew 


42  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

him  in  his  grave.  A  prayer  was  made,  and  then 
Septimius,  gathering  some  branches  and  twigs,  spread 
them  over  the  face  that  was  turned  upward  from  the 
bottom  of  the  pit,  into  which  the  sun  gleamed  down 
ward,  throwing  its  rays  so  as  almost  to  touch  it.  The 
twigs  partially  hid  it,  but  still  its  white  shone 
through.  Then  the  minister  threw  a  handful  of 
earth  upon  it,  and,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  burials, 
tears  fell  from  his  eyes  along  with  the  mould. 

"It  is  sad,"  said  he,  ''this  poor  young  man,  com 
ing  from  opulence,  no  doubt,  a  dear  English  home, 
to  die  here  for  no  end,  one  of  the  first-fruits  of  a 
bloody  war,  —  so  much  privately  sacrificed.  But  let 
him  rest,  Septimius.  I  am  sorry  that  he  fell  by  your 
hand,  though  it  involves  no  shadow  of  a  crime.  But 
death  is  a  thing  too  serious  not  to  melt  into  the 
nature  of  a  man  like  you." 

"  It  does  not  weigh  upon  my  conscience,  I  think," 
said  Septimius;  "though  I  cannot  but  feel  sorrow, 
and  wish  my  hand  were  as  clean  as  yesterday.  It 
is,  indeed,  a  dreadful  thing  to  take  human  life." 

"  It  is  a  most  serious  thing,"  replied  the  minister ; 
"  but  perhaps  we  are  apt  to  over-estimate  the  im 
portance  of  death  at  any  particular  moment.  If  the 
question  were  whether  to  die  or  to  live  forever,  then, 
indeed,  scarcely  anything  should  justify  the  putting 
a  fellow-creature  to  death.  But  since  it  only  shortens 
his  earthly  life,  and  brings  a  little  forward  a  change 
which,  since  God  permits  it,  is,  we  may  conclude,  as 
fit  to  take  place  then  as  at  any  other  time,  it  alters 
the  case.  I  often  think  that  there  are  many  things 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  43 

that  occur  to  us  in  our  daily  life,  many  unknown 
crises,  that  are  more  important  to  us  than  this  mys 
terious  circumstance  of  death,  which  we  deem  the 
most  important  of  all.  All  we  understand  of  it  is, 
that  it  takes  the  dead  person  away  from  our  knowl 
edge  of  him,  which,  while  we  live  with  him,  is  so 
very  scanty." 

"  You  estimate  at  nothing,  it  seems,  his  earthly 
life,  which  might  have  been  so  happy." 

"  At  next  to  nothing,"  said  the  minister ;  "  since,  as 
I  have  observed,  it  must,  at  any  rate,  have  closed  so 
soon." 

Septimius  thought  of  what  the  young  man,  in  his 
last  moments,  had  said  of  his  prospect  or  opportunity 
of  living  a  life  of  interminable  length,  and  which  pros 
pect  he  had  bequeathed  to  himself.  But  of  this  he 
did  not  speak  to  the  minister,  being,  indeed,  ashamed 
to  have  it  supposed  that  he  would  put  any  serious 
weight  on  such  a  bequest,  although  it  might  be  that 
the  dark  enterprise  of  his  nature  had  secretly  seized 
upon  this  idea,  and,  though  yet  sane  enough  to  be 
influenced  by  a  fear  of  ridicule,  was  busy  incorporating 
it  with  his  thoughts. 

So  Septimius  smoothed  down  the  young  stranger's 
earthy  bed,  and  returned  to  his  home,  where  he  hung 
up  the  sword  over  the  mantel-piece  in  his  study,  and 
hung  the  gold  watch,  too,  on  a  nail,  —  the  first  time 
he  had  ever  had  possession  of  such  a  thing.  Nor  did 
he  now  feel  altogether  at  ease  in  his  mind  about  keep 
ing  it,  —  the  time-measurer  of  one  whose  mortal  life 
he  had  cut  off.  A  splendid  watch  it  was,  round  as  a 


44  SEPTIMIUS    FELTON. 

turnip.  There  seems  to  be  a  natural  right  in  one 
who  has  slain  a  man  to  step  into  his  vacant  place  in 
all  respects ;  and  from  the  beginning  of  man's  dealings 
with  man  this  right  has  been  practically  recognized, 
whether  among  warriors  or  robbers,  as  paramount  to 
every  other.  Yet  Septimius  could  not  feel  easy  in 
availing  himself  of  this  right.  He  therefore  resolved 
to  keep  the  watch,  and  even  the  sword  and  fusil,  — 
which  were  less  questionable  spoils  of  war,  —  only 
till  he  should  be  able  to  restore  them  to  some  repre 
sentative  of  the  young  officer.  The  contents  of  the 
purse,  in  accordance  with  the  request  of  the  dying 
youth,  he  would  expend  in  relieving  the  necessities  of 
those  whom  the  war  (now  broken  out,  and  of  which 
no  one  could  see  the  limit)  might  put  in  need  of  it. 
The  miniature,  with  its  broken  and  shattered  face, 
that  had  so  vainly  interposed  itself  between  its  wearer 
and  death,  had  been  sent  to  its  address. 

But  as  to  the  mysterious  document,  the  written 
paper,  that  he  had  laid  aside  without  unfolding  it, 
hut  with  a  care  that  betokened  more  interest  in  it 
than  in  either  gold  or  weapon,  or  even  in  the  golden 
representative  of  that  earthly  time  on  which  he  set 
so  high  a  value.  There  was  something  tremulous  in 
his  touch  of  it ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  it 
by  the  mode  in  which  he  hid  it  away,  and  secured 
himself  from  it,  as  it  were. 

This  done,  the  air  of  the  room,  the  low-ceilinged 
eastern  room  where  he  studied  and  thought,  became 
too  close  for  him,  and  he  hastened  out ;  for  he  was 
full  of  the  unshaped  sense  of  all  that  had  befallen, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  45 

and  the  perception  of  the  great  public  event  of  a 
broken-out  war  was  intermixed  with  that  of  what  he 
had  done  personally  in  the  great  struggle  that  was 
beginning.  He  longed,  too,  to  know  what  was  the 
news  of  the  battle  that  had  gone  rolling  onward  along 
the  hitherto  peaceful  country  road,  converting  every 
where  (this  demon  of  war,  we  mean),  with  one  blast 
of  its  red  sulphurous  breath,  the  peaceful  husband 
man  to  a  soldier  thirsting  for  blood.  He  turned  his 
steps,  therefore,  towards  the  village,  thinking  it  proba 
ble  that  news  must  have  arrived  either  of  defeat  or 
victory,  from  messengers  or  fliers,  to  cheer  or  sadden 
the  old  men,  the  women,  and  the  children,  who  alone 
perhaps  remained  there. 

But  Septimius  did  not  get  to  the  village.  As  he 
passed  along  by  the  cottage  that  has  been  already 
described,  Rose  Garfield  was  standing  at  the  door, 
peering  anxiously  forth  to  know  what  was  the  issue 
of  the  conflict,  —  as  it  has  been  woman's  fate  to  do 
from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  and  is  so  still. 
Seeing  Septimius,  she  forgot  the  restraint  that  she 
had  hitherto  kept  herself  under,  and,  flying  at  him 
like  a  bird,  she  cried  out,  "  Septimius,  dear  Septimius, 
where  have  you  been  1  What  news  do  you  bring  ] 
You  look  as  if  you  had  seen  some  strange  and  dread 
ful  thing." 

"  Ah,  is  it  so  1  Does  my  face  tell  such  stories  1 " 
exclaimed  the  young  man.  "  I  did  not  mean  it 
should.  Yes,  Rose,  I  have  seen  and  done  such  things 
as  change  a  man  in  a  moment." 

"  Then  you  have  been  in  this  terrible  fight,"  said  Rose. 


46  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"Yes,  Rose,  I  have  had  my  part  in  it,"  answered 
Septimius. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  relieving  his  overburdened 
mind  by  telling  her  what  had  happened  no  farther 
off  than  on  the  hill  above  them;  but,  seeing  her 
excitement,  and  recollecting  her  own  momentary  in 
terview  with  the  young  officer,  and  the  forced  intimacy 
and  link  that  had  been  established  between  them  by 
the  kiss,  he  feared  to  agitate  her  further  by  telling 
her  that  that  gay  and  beautiful  young  man  had  since 
been  slain,  and  deposited  in  a  bloody  grave  by  his 
hands.  And  yet  the  recollection  of  that  kiss  caused 
a  thrill  of  vengeful  joy  at  the  thought  that  the  perpe 
trator  had  since  expiated  his  offence  with  his  life,  and 
that  it  was  himself  that  did  it,  so  deeply  was  Sep- 
timius's  Indian  nature  of  revenge  and  blood  incorpo 
rated  with  that  of  more  peaceful  forefathers,  although 
Septimius  had  grace  enough  to  chide  down  that 
bloody  spirit,  feeling  that  it  made  him,  not  a  patriot, 
but  a  murderer. 

"Ah,"  said  Rose,  shuddering,  "it  is  awful  when  we 
must  kill  one  another !  And  who  knows  where  it 
will  end?" 

"  With  me  it  will  end  here,  Rose,"  said  Septimius. 
"  It  may  be  lawful  for  any  man,  even  if  he  have 
devoted  himself  to  God,  or  however  peaceful  his  pur 
suits,  to  fight  to  the  death  when  the  enemy's  step  is 
on  the  soil  of  his  home ;  but  only  for  that  perilous 
juncture,  which  passed,  he  should  return  to  his  own 
way  of  peace.  I  have  done  a  terrible  thing  for  once, 
dear  Rose,  one  that  might  well  trace  a  dark  line 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  4T 

through  all  my  future  life ;  but  henceforth  I  cannot 
think  it  my  duty  to  pursue  any  further  a  work  for 
which  my  studies  and  my  nature  unfit  me." 

"0  no!  0  no  ! "  said  Rose;  "never!  and  you  a 
minister,  or  soon  to  be  one.  There  must  be  some 
peacemakers  left  in  the  world,  or  everything  will  turn 
to  blood  and  confusion ;  for  even  women  grow  dread 
fully  fierce  in  these  'times.  My  old  grandmother 
laments  her  bedriddenness,  because,  she  says,  she 
cannot  go  to  cheer  on  the  people  against  the  enemy. 
But  she  remembers  the  old  times  of  the  Indian  wars, 
when  the  women  were  as  much  in  danger  of  death  as 
the  men,  and  so  were  almost  as  fierce  as  they,  and 
killed  men  sometimes  with  their  own  hands.  But 
women,  nowadays,  ought  to  be  gentler;  let  the  men 
be  fierce,  if  they  must,  except  you,  and  such  as  you, 
Septimius." 

"Ah,  dear  Rose,"  said  Septimius,  "I  have  not  the 
kind  and  sweet  impulses  that  you  speak  of.  I  need 
something  to  soften  and  warm  my  cold,  hard  life ; 
something  to  make  me  feel  how  dreadful  this  time  of 
warfare  is.  I  need  you,  dear  Rose,  who  are  all  kind 
ness  of  heart  and  mercy." 

And  here  Septimius,  hurried  away  by  I  know  not 
what  excitement  of  the  time,  —  the  disturbed  state  of 
the  country,  his  own  ebullition  of  passion,  the  deed  he 
had  done,  the  desire  to  press  one  human  being  close 
to  his  life,  because  he  had  shed  the  blood  of  another, 
his  half-formed  purposes,  his  shapeless  impulses;  in 
short,  being  affected  by  the  whole  stir  of  his  nature, 
—  *poke  to  Rose  of  love,  and  with  an  energy  that, 


48  SEPTIMIUS  FfcLTON. 

indeed,  there  was  no  resisting  when  once  it  broke 
bounds.  And  Rose,  whose  maiden  thoughts,  to  say 
the  truth,  had  long  dwelt  upon  this  young  man,  — 
admiring  him  for  a  certain  dark  beauty,  knowing  him 
familiarly  from  childhood,  and  yet  having  the  sense, 
that  is  so  bewitching,  of  remoteness,  intermixed  with 
intimacy,  because  he  was  so  unlike  herself;  having  a 
woman's  respect  for  scholarship,  her  imagination  the 
more  impressed  by  all  in  him  that  she  could  not  com 
prehend,  —  Rose  yielded  to  his  impetuous  suit,  and 
gave  him  the  troth  that  he  requested.  And  yet  it 
was  with  a  sort  of  reluctance  and  drawing  back ;  her 
whole  nature,  her  secretest  heart,  her  deepest  woman 
hood,  perhaps,  did  not  consent.  There  was  something 
in  Septimius,  in  his  wild,  mixed  nature,  the  nion- 
strousness  that  had  grown  out  of  his  hybrid  race,  the 
black  infusions,  too,  which  melancholic  men  had  left 
there,  the  devilishness  that  had  been  symbolized  in 
the  popular  regard  about  his  family,  that  made  her 
shiver,  even  while  she  came  the  closer  to  him  for  that 
very  dread.  And  when  he  gave  her  the  kiss  of 
betrothment  her  lips  grew  white.  If  it  had  not  been 
in  the  day  of  turmoil,  if  he  had  asked  her  in  any 
quiet  time,  when  Rose's  heart  was  in  its  natural  mood, 
it  may  well  be  that,  with  tears  and  pity  for  him,  and 
half-pity  for  herself,  Rose  would  have  told  Septimius 
that  she  did  not  think  she  could  love  him  well  enough 
to  be  his  wife. 

And  how  was  it  with  Septimius  1  Well ;  there  was 
a  singular  correspondence  in  his  feelings  to  those  of 
Rose  Garfield.  At  first,  carried  away  by  a  passion 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  49 

that  seized  him  all  unawares,  and  seemed  to  develop 
itself  all  in  a  moment,  he  felt,  and  so  spoke  to  Rose, 
so  pleaded  his  suit,  as  if  his  whole  earthly  happiness 
depended  on  her  consent  to  be  his  brida.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  her  love  would  be  the  sunshine  in  the 
gloomy  dungeon  of  his  life.  But  when  her  bashful, 
downcast,  tremulous  consent  was  given,  then  imme 
diately  came  a  strange  misgiving  into  his  mind.  He 
felt  as  if  he  had  taken  to  himself  something  good  and 
beautiful  doubtless  in  itself,  but  which  might  be  the 
exchange  for  one  more  suited  to  him,  that  he  must 
now  give  up.  The  intellect,  which  was  the  prominent 
point  in  Septimius,  stirred  and  heaved,  crying  out 
vaguely  that  its  own  claims,  perhaps,  were  ignored  in 
this  contract.  Septimius  had  perhaps  no  right  to  love 
at  all;  if  he  did,  it  should  have  been  a  woman  of 
another  make,  who  could  be  his  intellectual  compan 
ion  and  helper.  And  then,  perchance,  —  perchance, 
—  there  was  destined  for  him  some  high,  lonely  path, 
in  which,  to  make  any  progress,  to  come  to  any  end, 
he  must  walk  unburdened  by  the  affections.  Such 
thoughts  as  these  depressed  and  chilled  (as  many  men 
have  found  them,  or  similar  ones,  to  do)  the  moment 
of  success  that  should  have  been  the  most  exulting 
in  the  world.  And  so,  in  the  kiss  which  these  two 
lovers  had  exchanged  there  was,  after  all,  something 
that  repelled ;  and  when  they  parted  they  wondered 
at  their  strange  states  of  mind,  but  would  not  ac 
knowledge  that  they  had  done  a  thing  that  ought  not 
to  have  been  done.  Nothing  is  surer,  however,  than 
that,  if  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  drawn  into  too  close 

3  D 


50  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

proximity  with  people,  if  we  over-estimate  the  degree 
of  our  proper  tendency  towards  them,  or  theirs  to 
wards  us,  a  reaction  is  sure  to  follow. 

Septimius  quitted  Rose,  and  resumed  his  walk 
towards  the  village.  But  now  it  was  near  sunset,  and 
there  began  to  be  straggling  passengers  along  the 
road,  some  of  whom  came  slowly,  as  if  they  had 
received  hurts;  all  seemed  wearied.  Among  them 
one  form  appeared  which  Rose  soon  found  that  she 
recognized.  It  was  Robert  Hagburn,  with  a  shattered 
firelock  in  his  hand,  broken  at  the  but,  and  his  left 
arm  bound  with  a  fragment  of  hia  shirt,  and  sus 
pended  in  a  handkerchief;  and  he  walked  weariedly, 
but  brightened  up  at  sight  of  Rose,  as  if  ashamed  to 
let  her  see  how  exhausted  and  dispirited  he  was. 
Perhaps  he  expected  a  smile,  at  least  a  more  earnest 
reception  than  he  met;  for  Rose,  with  the  restraint 
of  what  had  recently  passed  drawing  her  back,  merely 
went  gravely  a  few  steps  to  meet  him,  and  said,  "  Rob 
ert,  how  tired  and  pale  you  look  !  Are  you  hurt  1 " 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence,"  replied  Robert  Hagburn ; 
"a  scratch  on  my  left  arm  from  an  officer's  sword, 
with  whose  head  my  gunstock  made  instant  acquaint 
ance.  It  is  no  matter,  Rose ;  you  do  not  care  for  it, 
nor  do  I  either." 

"  How  can  you  say  so,  Robert  1 "  she  replied.  But 
without  more  greeting  he  passed  her,  and  went  into 
his  own  house,  where,  flinging  himself  into  a  chair,  he 
remained  in  that  despondency  that  men  generally  feel 
after  a  fight,  even  if  a  successful  one. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  51 

Septimius,  the  next  day,  lost  no  time  in  writing  a 
letter  to  the  direction  given  him  by  the  young  officer, 
conveying  a  brief  account  of  the  latter's  death  and 
burial,  and  a  signification  that  he  held  in  readiness  to 
give  up  certain  articles  of  property,  at  any  future 
time,  to  his  representatives,  mentioning  also  the 
amount  of  money  contained  in  the  purse,  and  his 
intention,  in  compliance  with  the  verbal  will  of  the 
deceased,  to  expend  it  in  alleviating  the  wants  of 
prisoners.  Having  so  done,  he  went  up  on  the  hill 
to  look  at  the  grave,  and  satisfy  himself  that  the 
scene  there  had  not  been  a  dream ;  a  point  which  he 
was  inclined  to  question,  in  spite  of  the  tangible  evi 
dence  of  the  sword  and  watch,  which  still  hung  ovei 
the  mantel-piece.  There  was  the  little  mound,  how 
ever,  looking  so  incontrovertibly  a  grave,  that  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  all  the  world  must  see  it,  and 
wonder  at  the  fact  of  its  being  there,  and  spend  their 
wits  in  conjecturing  who  slept  within ;  and,  indeed,  it 
seemed  to  give  the  affair  a  questionable  character, 
this  secret  burial,  and  he  woncfered  and  wondered  why 
the  young  man  had  been  so  earnest  about  it.  Well ; 
there  was  the  grave ;  and,  moreover,  on  the  leafy 
earth,  where  the  dying  youth  had  lain,  there  were 
traces  of  blood,  which  no  rain  had  yet  washed  away. 
Septimius  wondered  at  the  easiness  with  which  the 
acquiesced  in  this  deed ;  in  fact,  he  felt  in  a  slight 
degree  the  effects  of  that  taste  of  blood,  which  makes 
the  slaying  of  men,  like  any  other  abuse,  sometimes 
become  a  passion.  Perhaps  it  was  his  Indian  trait 
stirring  in  him  again ;  at  any  rate,  it  is  not  delightful 


52  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

to  observe  how  readily  man  becomes  a  blood-shedding 
animal. 

Looking  down  from  the  hill-top,  he  saw  the  little 
dwelling  of  Rose  Garfield,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
girl  herself,  passing  the  windows  or  the  door,  about 
her  household  duties,  and  listened  to  hear  the  singing 
which  usually  broke  out  of  her.  But  Rose,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  did  not  warble  as  usual  this  morn 
ing.  She  trod  about  silently,  and  somehow  or  other 
she  was  translated  out  of  the  ideality  in  which  Sep- 
timius  usually  enveloped  her,  and  looked  little  more 
than  a  New  England  girl,  very  pretty  indeed,  but  not 
enough  so  perhaps  to  engross  a  man's  life  and  higher 
purposes  into  her  own  narrow  circle ;  so,  at  least, 
Septimius  thought.  Looking  a  little  farther,  —  down 
into  the  green  recess  where  stood  Robert  Hagburn's 
house,  —  he  saw  that  young  man,  looking  very  pale, 
with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  sitting  listlessly  on  a  half- 
chopped  log  of  wood,  which  was  not  likely  soon  to  be 
severed  by  Robert's  axe.  Like  other  lovers,  Septimius 
had  not  failed  to  be  aware  that  Robert  Hagburn  was 
sensible  to  Rose  Garfield's  attractions ;  and  now,  as  he 
looked  down  on  them  both  from  his  elevated  posi 
tion,  he  wondered  if  it  would  not  have  been  better  for 
Rose's  happiness  if  her  thoughts  and  virgin  fancies  had 
settled  on  that  frank,  cheerful,  able,  wholesome  young 
man,  instead  of  on  himself,  who  met  her  on  so  few 
points ;  and,  in  relation  to  whom,  there  was  perhaps  a 
plant  that  had  its  root  in  the  grave,  that  would  entwine 
itself  around  his  whole  life,  overshadowing  it  with  dark, 
rich  foliage  and  fruit  that  he  alone  could  feast  upon. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  53 

For  the  sombre  imagination  of  Septimius,  though 
he  kept  it  as  much  as  possible  away  from  the  subject, 
still  kept  hinting  and  whispering,  still  coming  back  to 
the  point,  still  secretly  suggesting  that  the  event  of 
yesterday  was  to  have  momentous  consequences  upon 
his  fate. 

He  had  not  yet  looked  at  the  paper  which  the 
young  man  bequeathed  to  him ;  he  had  laid  it  away 
unopened ;  not  that  he  felt  little  interest  in  it,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  because  he  looked  for  some  blaze  of 
light  which  had  been  reserved  for  him  alone.  The 
young  officer  had  been  only  the  bearer  of  it  to  him, 
and  he  had  come  hither  to  die  by  his  hand,  because 
that  was  the  readiest  way  by  which  he  could  deliver 
his  message.  How  else,  in  the  infinite  chances  of 
human  affairs,  could  the  document  have  found  its  way 
to  its  destined  possessor?  Thus  mused  Septimius, 
pacing  to  and  fro  on  the  level  edge  of  his  hill-top, 
apart  from  the  world,  looking  down  occasionally  into 
it,  and  seeing  its  love  and  interest  away  from  him ; 
while  Rose,  it  might  be  looking  iipward,  saw  occasion 
ally  his  passing  figure,  and  trembled  at  the  nearness 
and  remoteness  that  existed  between  them ;  and  Rob 
ert  Hagburn  looked  too,  and  wondered  what  manner 
of  man  it  was  who,  having  won  Rose  Garfield  (for  his 
instinct  told  him  this  was  so),  could  keep  that  dis 
tance  between  her  and  him,  thinking  remote  thoughts. 

Yes;  there  was  Septimius,  treading  a  path  of  his 
own  on  the  hill-top ;  his  feet  began  only  that  morning 
to  wear  it  in  his  walking  to  and  fro,  sheltered  from 
the  lower  world,  except  in  occasional  glimpses,  by  the 


54  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

birches  and  locusts  that  threw  up  their  foliage  from 
the  hillside.  But  many  a  year  thereafter  he  continued 
to  tread  that  path,  till  it  was  worn  deep  with  his  foot 
steps  and  trodden  down  hard;  and  it  was  believed  by 
some  of  his  superstitious  neighbors  that  the  grass  and 
little  shrubs  shrank  away  from  his  path,  and  made  it 
wider  on  that  account ;  because  there  was  something 
in  the  broodings  that  urged  him  to  and  fro  along  the 
path  alien  to  nature  and  its  productions.  There  was 
another  opinion,  too,  that  an  invisible  fiend,  one  of  his 
relatives  by  blood,  walked  side  by  side  with  him,  and 
so  made  the  pathway  wider  than  his  single  footsteps 
could  have  made  it.  But  all  this  was  idle,  and  was, 
indeed,  only  the  foolish  babble  that  hovers  like  a  mist 
about  men  who  withdraw  themselves  from  the  throng, 
and  involve  themselves  in  unintelligible  pursuits  and 
interests  of  their  own.  For  the  present,  the  small 
world,  which  alone  knew  of  him,  considered  Septimius 
as  a  studious  young  man,  who  was  fitting  for  the 
ministry,  and  was  likely  enough  to  do  credit  to  the 
ministerial  blood  that  he  drew  from  his  ancestors,  in 
spite  of  the  wild  stream  that  the  Indian  priest  had 
contributed ;  and  perhaps  none  the  worse,  as  a  clergy 
man,  for  having  an  instinctive  sense  of  the  nature  of 
the  Devil  from  his  traditionary  claims  to  partake  of 
his  blood.  But  what  strange  interest  there  is  in 
tracing  out  the  first  steps  by  which  we  enter  on  a 
career  that  influences  our  life ;  and  this  deep-worn 
pathway  on  the  hill-top,  passing  and  repassing  by  a 
grave,  seemed  to  symbolize  it  in  Septimius's  case. 
I  suppose  the  morbidness  of  Septimius's  disposition 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  55 

was  excited  by  the  circumstances  which  had  put  the 
paper  into  his  possession.  Had  he  received  it  by 
post,  it  might  not  have  impressed  him ;  he  might 
possibly  have  looked  over  it  with  ridicule,  and  tossed 
it  aside.  But  he  had  taken  it  from  a  dying  man,  and 
he  felt  that  his  fate  was  in  it ;  and  truly  it  turned 
out  to  be  so.  He  waited  for  a  fit  opportunity  to 
open  it  and  read  it ;  he  put  it  off  as  if  he  cared  noth 
ing  about  it;  but  perhaps  it  was  because  he  cared 
so  much.  Whenever  he  had  a  happy  time  with  Rose 
(and,  moody  as  Septimius  was,  such  happy  moments 
came),  he  felt  that  then  was  not  the  time  to  look  into 
the  paper,  —  it  was  not  to  be  read  in  a  happy  mood. 

Once  he  asked  Rose  to  walk  with  him  on  the  hill 
top. 

"  Why,  what  a  path  you  have  worn  here,  Sep 
timius  !  "  said  the  girl.  "  You  walk  miles  and  miles 
on  this  one  spot,  and  get  no  farther  on  than  when 
you  started.  That  is  strange  walking  !  " 

"I  don't  know,  Rose;  I  sometimes  think  I  get  a 
little  onward.  But  it  is  sweeter  —  yes,  much  sweeter, 
I  find  —  to  have  you  walking  on  this  path  here  than 
to  be  treading  it  alone." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Rose  ;  "for  sometimes, 
when  I  look  up  here,  and  see  you  through  the 
branches,  with  your  head  bent  down  and  your  hands 
clasped  behind  you,  treading,  treading,  treading,  al 
ways  in  one  way,  I  wonder  whether  I  am  at  all  in 
your  mind.  I  don't  think,  Septimius,"  added  she, 
looking  up  in  his  face  and  smiling,  "  that  ever  a  girl 
had  just  such  a  young  man  for  a  lover." 


56  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  No  young  man  ever  had  such  a  girl,  I  am  sure," 
said  Septimius ;  "  so  sweet,  so  good  for  him,  so  prolific 
of  good  influences ! " 

"Ah,  it  makes  me  think  well  of  myself  to  bring 
such  a  smile  into  your  face !  But,  Septimius,  what 
is  this  little  hillock  here  so  close  to  our  path  ?  Have 
you  heaped  it  up  here  for  a  seat  1  Shall  we  sit  down 
upon  it  for  an  instant  1  —  for  it  makes  me  more  tired 
to  walk  backward  and  forward  on  one  path  than  to 
go  straight  forward  a  much  longer  distance." 

"  Well ;  but  we  will  not  sit  down  on  this  hillock," 
said  Septimius,  drawing  her  away  from  it.  "  Farther 
out  this  way,  if  you  please,  Rose,  where  we  shall  have 
a  better  view  over  the  wide  plain,  the  valley,  and  the 
long,  tame  ridge  of  hills  on  the  other  side,  shutting 
it  in  like  human  life.  It  is  a  landscape  that  never 
tires,  though  it  has  nothing  striking  about  it ;  and  I 
am  glad  that  there  are  no  great  hills  to  be  thrusting 
themselves  into  my  thoughts,  and  crowding  out  bet 
ter  things.  It  might  be  desirable,  in  some  states  of 
mind,  to  have  a  glimpse  of  water,  —  to  have  the  lake 
that  once  must  have  covered  this  green  valley,  — 
because  water  reflects  the  sky,  and  so  is  like  religion 
in  life,  the  spiritual  element." 

"  There  is  the  brook  running  through  it,  though  we 
do  not  see  it,"  replied  Rose ;  "  a  torpid  little  brook, 
to  be  sure ;  but,  as  you  say,  it  has  heaven  in  its 
bosom,  like  Walden  Pond,  or  any  wider  one." 

As  they  sat  together  on  the  hill-top,  they  could 
look  down  into  Robert  Hagburn's  enclosure,  and  they 
saw  him,  with  his  arm  now  relieved  from  the  sling, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  57 

walking  about,  in  a  very  erect  manner,  with  a  middle- 
aged  man  by  his  side,  to  whom  he  seemed  to  be 
talking  and  explaining  some  matter.  Even  at  that 
distance  Septimius  could  see  that  the  rustic  stoop  and 
uncouthness  had  somehow  fallen  away  from  Robert, 
and  that  he  seemed  developed. 

"  What  has  come  to  Robert  Hagburn  1 "  said  he. 
"  He  looks  like  another  man  than  the  lout  I  knew  a 
few  weeks  ago." 

"  Nothing,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  "  except  what  comes 
to  a  good  many  young  men  nowadays.  He  has  en 
listed,  and  is  going  to  the  war.  It  is  a  pity  for  his 
mother." 

"A  great  pity,"  said  Septimius.  "Mothers  are 
greatly  to  be  pitied  all  over  the  country  just  now, 
and  there  are  some  even  more  to  be  pitied  than 
the  mothers,  though  many  of  them  do  not  know  or 
suspect  anything  about  their  cause  of  grief  at  pres 
ent." 
k  "  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ]  "  asked  Rose. 

"  I  mean  those  many  good  and  sweet  young  girls," 
said  Septimius,  "  who  would  have  been  happy  wives 
to  the  thousands  of  young  men  who  now,  like  Robert 
Hagburn,  are  going  to  the  war.  Those  young  men  — 
many  of  them,  at  least  —  will  sicken  and  die  in  camp, 
or  be  shot  down,  or  struck  through  with  bayonets  on 
battle-fields,  and  turn  to  dust  and  bones ;  while  the 
girls  that  would  have  loved  them,  and  made  happy 
f.resides  for  them,  will  pine  and  wither,  and  tread  along 
many  sour  and  discontented  years,  and  at  last  go  out 
of  life  without  knowing  what  life  is.  So  you  see, 
3* 


58  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

Rose,  every  shot  that  takes  effect  kills  two  at  least, 
or  kills  one  and  worse  than  kills  the  other." 

"  No  woman  will  live  single  on  account  of  poor 
Robert  Hagburn  being  shot,"  said  Rose,  with  a  change 
of  tone ;  "  for  he  would  never  be  married  were  he  to 
stay  at  home  and  plough  the  field." 

"  How  can  you  tell  that,  Rose  1 "  asked  Septimius. 

Rose  did  not  tell  how  she  came  to  know  so  much 
about  Robert  Hagburn's  matrimonial  purposes;  but 
after  this  little  talk  it  appeared  as  if  something  had 
risen  up  between  them,  —  a  sort  of  mist,  a  medium, 
in  which  their  intimacy  was  not  increased ;  for  the 
flow  and  interchange  of  sentiment  was  balked,  and 
they  took  only  one  or  two  turns  in  silence  along 
Septimius's  trodden  path.  I  don't  know  exactly  what 
it  was ;  but  there  are  cases  in  which  it  is  inscrutably 
revealed  to  persons  that  they  have  made  a  mistake  in 
what  is  of  the  highest  concern  to  them;  and  this 
truth  often  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  vague  depression 
of  the  spirit,  like  a  vapor  settling  down  on  a  land 
scape  ;  a  misgiving,  coming  and  going  perhaps,  a  lack 
of  perfect  certainty.  Whatever  it  was,  Rose  and 
Septimius  had  no  more  tender  and  playful  words 
that  day;  and  Rose  soon  went  to  look  after  her 
grandmother,  and  Septimius  went  and  shut  himself 
up  in  his  study,  after  making  an  arrangement  to  meet 
Rose  the  next  day. 

Septimius  shut  himself  up,  and  drew  forth  the 
document  which  the  young  officer,  with  that  singular 
smile  on  his  dying  face,  had  bequeathed  to  him  as 


SEPTLMIUS  FELTON.  59 

the  reward  of  his  death.  It  was  in  a  covering  of 
folded  parchment,  right  through  which,  as  aforesaid, 
was  a  bullet-hole  and  some  stains  of  blood.  Sep- 
timius  unrolled  the  parchment  cover,  and  found  in 
side  a  manuscript,  closely  written  in  a  crabbed  hand ; 
so  crabbed,  indeed,  that  Septimius  could  not  at  first 
read  a  word  of  it,  nor  even  satisfy  himself  in  what 
language  it  was  written.  There  seemed  to  be  Latin 
words,  and  some  interspersed  ones  in  Greek  char 
acters,  and  here  and  there  he  could  doubtfully  read 
an  English  sentence ;  but,  on  the  whole,  it  was  an 
unintelligible  mass,  conveying  somehow  an  idea  that 
it  was  the  fruit  of  vast  labor  and  erudition,  emanating 
from  a  mind  very  full  of  books,  and  grinding  and 
pressing  down  the  great  accumulation  of  grapes  that 
it  had  gathered  from  so  many  vineyards,  and  squeez 
ing  out  rich  viscid  juices,  —  potent  wine,  —  with 
which  the  reader  might  get  drunk.  Some  of  it, 
moreover,  seemed,  for  the  further  mystification  of 
the  officer,  to  be  written  in  cipher ;  a  needless  pre 
caution,  •  it  might  seem,  when  the  writer's  natural 
chirography  was  so  full  of  puzzle  and  bewilderment. 

Septimius  looked  at  this  strange  manuscript,  and 
it  shook  in  his  hands  as  he  held  it  before  his  eyes, 
so  great  was  his  excitement.  Probably,  doubtless, 
it  was  in  a  great  measure  owing  to  the  way  in  which 
it  came  to  him,  with  such  circumstances  of  tragedy 
and  mystery ;  as  if —  so  secret  and  so  important  was  it 
—  it  could  not  be  within  the  knowledge  of  two  per 
sons  at  once,  and  therefore  it  was  necessary  that  one 
should  die  in  the  act  of  transmitting  it  to  the  hand  of 


60  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

another,  the  destined  possessor,  inheritor,  profiter  by 
it.  By  the  bloody  hand,  as  all  the  great  possessions 
in  this  world  have  been  gained  and  inherited,  he  had 
succeeded  to  the  legacy,  the  richest  that  mortal  man 
ever  could  receive.  He  pored  over  the  inscrutable 
sentences,  and  wondered,  when  he  should  succeed  in 
reading  one,  if  it  might  summon  up  a  subject-fiend, 
appearing  with  thunder  and  devilish  demonstrations. 
And  by  what  other  strange  chance  had  the  document 
come  into  the  hand  of  him  who  alone  was  fit  to 
receive  it  ?  It  seemed  to  Septimius,  in  his  enthusias 
tic  egotism,  as  if  the  whole  chain  of  events  had  been 
arranged  purposely  for  this  end;  a  difference  had 
come  between  two  kindred  peoples ;  a  war  had  broken 
out ;  a  young'  officer,  with  the  traditions  of  an  old 
family  represented  in  his  line,  had  marched,  and  had 
met  with  a  peaceful  student,  who  had  been  incited 
from  high  and  noble  motives  to  take  his  life;  then 
came  a  strange,  brief  intimacy,  in  which  his  victim 
made  the  slayer  his  heir.  All  these  chances,  as  they 
seemed,  all  these  interferences  of  Providence,  as  they 
doubtless  were,  had  been  necessary  in  order  to  put 
this  manuscript  into  the  hands  of  Septimius,  who  now 
pored  over  it,  and  could  not  with  certainty  read  one 
word ! 

But  this  did  not  trouble  him,  except  for  the  mo 
mentary  delay.  Because  he  felt  well  assured  that  the 
strong,  concentrated  study  that  he  would  bring  to  it 
would  remove  all  difficulties,  as  the  rays  of  a  lens 
melt  stones ;  as  the  telescope  pierces  through  densest 
light  of  stars,  and  resolves  them  into  their  individual 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  61 

brilliancies.  He  could  afford  to  spend  years  upon  it, 
if  it  were  necessary ;  but  earnestness  and  application 
should  do  quickly  the  work  of  years. 

Amid  these  musings  he  was  interrupted  by  his 
Aunt  Kezlah ;  though  generally  observant  enough  of 
her  nephew's  studies,  and  feeling  a  sanctity  in  them, 
both  because  of  his  intending  to  be  a  minister  and 
because  she  had  a  great  reverence  for  learning,  even 
if  heathenish,  this  good  old  lady  summoned  Septimius 
somewhat  peremptorily  to  chop  wood  for  her  domestic 
purposes.  How  strange  it  is,  —  the  way  in  which  we 
are  summoned  from  all  high  purposes  by  these  little 
homely  necessities;  all  symbolizing  the  great  fact 
that  the  earthly  part  of  us,  with  its  demands,  takes 
up  the  greater  portion  of  all  our  available  force.  So 
Septimius,  grumbling  and  groaning,  went  to  the  wood 
shed  and  exercised  himself  for  an  hour  as  the  old  lady 
requested  •  and  it  was  only  by  instinct  that  he  worked, 
hardly  conscious  what  he  was  doing.  The  whole  of 
passing  life  seemed  impertinent ;  or  if,  for  an  instant, 
it  seemed  otherwise,  then  his  lonely  speculations  and 
plans  seemed  to  become  impalpable,  and  to  have  only 
the  consistency  of  vapor,  which  his  utmost  concentra 
tion  succeeded  no  further  than  to  make  into  the  like 
ness  of  absurd  faces,  mopping,  mowing,  and  laughing 
at  him. 

But  that  sentence  of  mystic  meaning  shone  out 
before  him  like  a  transparency,  illuminated  in  the 
darkness  of  his  mind ;  he  determined  to  take  it  for  his 
motto  until  he  should  be  victorious  in  his  quest. 
When  he  took  his  candle,  to  retire  apparently  to  bed, 


62  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

he  again  drew  forth  the  manuscript,  and,  sitting  down 
by  the  dim  light,  tried  vainly  to  read  it ;  but  he  could 
not  as  yet  settle  himself  to  concentrated  and  regular 
effort ;  he  kept  turning  the  leaves  of  the  manuscript, 
in  the  hope  that  some  other  illuminated  sentence 
might  gleam  out  upon  him,  as  the  first  had  done,  and 
shed  a  light  on  the  context  around  it ;  and  that  then 
another  would  be  discovered,  with  similar  effect,  until 
the  whole  document  would  thus  be  illuminated  with 
separate  stars  of  light,  converging  and  concentring 
in  one  radiance  that  should  make  the  whole  visible. 
But  such  was  his  bad  fortune,  not  another  word  of  the 
manuscript  was  he  able  to  read  that  whole  evening ; 
and,  moreover,  while  Ke  had  still  an  inch  of  candle 
left,  Aunt  Keziah,  in  her  nightcap,  —  as  witch-like  a 
figure  as  ever  went  to  a  wizard  meeting  in  the  forest 
with  Septimius's  ancestor,  —  appeared  at  the  door  of 
the  room,  aroused  from  her  bed,  and  shaking  her 
finger  at  him. 

"Septimius,"  said  she,  "you  keep  me  awake,  and 
you  will  ruin  your  eyes,  and  turn  your  head,  if  you 
study  till  midnight  in  this  manner.  You  '11  never  live 
to  be  a  minister,  if  this  is  the  way  you  go  on." 

"Well,  well,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  Septimius,  cover 
ing  his  manuscript  with  a  book,  "I  am  just  going  to 
bed  now." 

"Good  night,  then,"  said  the  old  woman;  "and 
God  bless  your  labors." 

Strangely  enough,  a  glance  at  the  manuscript,  as  he 
hid  it  from  the  old  woman,  had  seemed  to  Septimius 
to  reveal  another  sentence,  of  which  he  had  imperfectly 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  63 

caught  the  purport ;  and  when  she  had  gone,  he  in 
vain  sought  the  place,  and  vainly,  too,  endeavored  to 
recall  the  meaning  of  what  he  had  read.  Doubtless 
his  fancy  exaggerated  the  importance  of  the  sentence, 
and  he  felt  as  if  it  might  have  vanished  from  the  book 
forever.  In  fact,  the  unfortunate  young  man,  excited 
and  tossed  to  and  fro  by  a  variety  of  unusual  impulses, 
was  got  into  a  bad  way,  and  was  likely  enough  to  go 
mad,  unless  the  balancing  portion  of  his  mind  proved 
to  be  of  greater  volume  and  effect  than  as  yet  appeared 
to  be  the  case. 

The  next  morning  he  was  up,  bright  and  early, 
poring  over  the  manuscript  with  the  sharpened  wits 
of  the  new  day,  peering  into  its  night,  into  its  old, 
blurred,  forgotten  dream;  and,  indeed,  he  had  been 
dreaming  about  it,  and  was  fully  possessed  with  the 
idea  that,  in  his  dream,  he  had  taken  up  the  inscruta 
ble  document,  and  read  it  off  as  glibly  as  he  would 
the  page  of  a  modern  drama,  in  a  continual  rapture 
with  the  deep  truth  that  it  made  clear  to  his  compre 
hension,  and  the  lucid  way  in  which  it  evolved  the 
mode  in  which  man  might  be  restored  to  his  originally 
undying  state.  So  strong  was  the  impression,  that 
when  he  unfolded  the  manuscript,  it  was  with  almost 
the  belief  that  the  crabbed  old  handwriting  would  be 
plain  to  him.  Such  did  riot  prove  to  be  the  case, 
however ;  so  far  from  it,  that  poor  Septimius  in  vain 
turned  over  the  yellow  pages  in  quest  of  the  one  sen 
tence  which  he  had  been  able,  or  fancied  he  had  been 
able,  to  read  yesterday.  The  illumination  that  had 


64  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

brought  it  out  was  now  faded,  and  all  was  a  blur,  an 
inscrutableness,  a  scrawl  of  unintelligible  characters 
alike.  So  much  did  this  affect  him,  that  he  had 
almost  a  mind  to  tear  it  into  a  thousand  fragments, 
and  scatter  it  out  of  the  window  to  the  west-wind, 
that  was  then  blowing  past  the  house ;  and  if,  in  that 
summer  season,  there  had  been  a  fire  on  the  hearth,  it 
is  possible  that  easy  realization  of  a  destructive  im 
pulse  might  have  incited  him  to  fling  the  accursed 
scrawl  into  the  hottest  of  the  flames,  and  thus  re 
turned  it  to  the  Devil,  who,  he  suspected,  was  the 
original  author  of  it.  Had  he  done  so,  what  strange 
and  gloomy  passages  would  I  have  been  spared  the 
pain  of  relating !  How  different  would  have  been  the 
life  of  Septimius,  —  a  thoughtful  preacher  of  God's 
word,  taking  severe  but  conscientious  views  of  man's 
state  and  relations,  a  heavy-browed  walker  and  worker 
on  earth,  and,  finally,  a  slumberer  in  an  honored 
grave,  with  an  epitaph  bearing  testimony  to  his  great 
usefulness  in  his  generation. 

But,  in  the  mean  time,  here  was  the  troublesome 
day  passing  over  him,  and  pestering,  bewildering,  and 
tripping  him  up  with  its  mere  sublunary  troubles,  as 
the  days  will  all  of  us  the  moment  we  try  to  do  any 
thing  that  we  flatter  ourselves  is  of  a  little  more 
importance  than  others  are  doing.  Aunt  Keziah  tor 
mented  him  a  great  while  about  the  rich  field,  just 
across  the  road,  in  front  of  the  house,  which  Septim 
ius  had  neglected  the  cultivation  of,  unwilling  to 
spare  the  time  to  plough,  to  plant,  to  hoe  it  himself, 
but  hired  a  lazy  lout  of  the  village,  when  he  might  just 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON,  65 

as  well  have  employed  and  paid  wages  to  the  scarecrow 
which  Aunt  Keziah  dressed  out  in  ancient  habiliments, 
and  set  up  in  the  midst  of  the  corn.  Then  came 
an  old  codger  from  the  village,  talking  to  Septimius 
about  the  war,  —  a  theme  of  which  he  was  weary : 
telling  the  rumor  of  skirmishes  that  the  next  day 
would  prove  to  be  false,  of  battles  that  were  imme 
diately  to  take  place,  of  encounters  with  the  enemy  in 
which  our  side  showed  the  valor  of  twenty-fold  heroes, 
but  had  to  retreat;  babbling  about  shells  and  mor 
tars,  battalions,  manosuvres,  angles,  fascines,  and  other 
items  of  military  art ;  for  war  had  filled  the  whole 
brain  of  the  people,  and  enveloped  the  whole  thought 
of  man  in  a  mist  of  gunpowder. 

In  this  way,  sitting  on  his  doorstep,  or  in  the  very 
study,  haunted  by  such  speculations,  this  wretched 
old  man  would  waste  the  better  part  of  a  summer 
afternoon,  while  Septimius  listened,  returning  ab 
stracted  monosyllables,  answering  amiss,  and  wishing 
his  persecutor  jammed  into  one  of  the  cannons  he 
talked  about,  and  fired  off,  to  end  his  interminable 
babble  in  one  roar ;  [talking]  of  great  officers  coming 
from  France  and  other  countries;  of  overwhelming 
forces  from  England,  to  put  an  end  to  the  war  at 
once ;  of  the  unlikelihood  that  it  ever  should  be 
ended ;  of  its  hopelessness ;  of  its  certainty  of  a  good 
and  speedy  end. 

Then  came  limping  along  the  lane  a  disabled  sol 
dier,  begging  his  way  home  from  the  field,  which,  a 
little  while  ago,  he  had  sought  in  the  full  vigor  of 
rustic  health  he  was  never  to  know  again ;  with  whom 


66  SEPT1MIUS  FELTON. 

Septimius  had  to  talk,  and  relieve  his  wants  as  far  as 
he  could  (though  not  from  the  poor  young  officer's 
deposit  of  English  gold),  and  send  him  on  his  way. 

Then  came  the  minister,  to  talk  with  his  former 
pupil,  about  whom  he  had  latterly  had  much  medita 
tion,  not  understanding  what  mood  had  taken  posses 
sion  of  him;  for  the  minister  was  a  man  of  insight, 
and  from  conversations  with  Septimius,  as  searching 
as  he  knew  how  to  make  them,  he  had  begun  to 
doubt  whether  he  were  sufficiently  sound  in  faith  to 
adopt  the  clerical  persuasion.  Not  that  he  supposed 
him  to  be  anything  like  a  confirmed  unbeliever; 
but  he  thought  it  probable  that  these  doubts,  these 
strange,  dark,  disheartening  suggestions  of  the  Devil, 
that  so  surely  infect  certain  temperaments  and  meas 
ures  of  intellect,  were  tormenting  poor  Septimius,  and 
pulling  him  back  from  the  path  in  which  he  was 
capable  of  doing  so  much  good.  So  he  came  this 
afternoon  to  talk  seriously  with  him,  and  to  advise 
him,  if  the  case  were  as  he  supposed,  to  get  for  a 
time  out  of  the  track  of  the  thought  in  which  he  had 
so  long  been  engaged ;  to  enter  into  active  life ;  and 
by  and  by,  when  the  morbid  influences  should  have 
been  overcome  by  a  change  of  mental  and  moral 
religion,  he  might  return,  fresh  and  healthy,  to  his 
original  design. 

"  What  can  I  do, "  asked  Septimius,  gloomily, 
"what  business  take  up,  when  the  whole  land  lies 
waste  and  idle,  except  for  this  war?" 

"  There  is  the  very  business,  then,"  said  the  minis 
ter.  "  Do  you  think  God's  work  is  not  to  be  done  in 


SEPTLMIUS  FELTON.  67 

the  field  as  well  as  in  the  pulpit1?  You  are  strong, 
Septimius,  of  a  bold  character,  and  have  a  mien  and 
bearing  that  gives  you  a  natural  command  among 
men.  Go  to  the  wars,  and  do  a  valiant  part  for  your 
country,  and  come  back  to  your  peaceful  mission 
when  the  enemy  has  vanished.  Or  you  might  go  as 
chaplain  to  a  regiment,  and  use  either  hand  in  battle, 
—  pray  for  success  before  a  battle,  help  win  it  with 
sword  or  gun,  and  give  thanks  to  God,  kneeling  on 
the  bloody  field,  at  its  close.  You  have  already 
stretched  one  foe  on  your  native  soil." 

Septimius  could  not  but  smile  within  himself  at 
this  warlike  and  bloody  counsel  j  and,  joining  it  with 
some  similar  exhortations  from  Aunt  Keziah,  he  was 
inclined  to  think  that  women  and  clergymen  are,  in 
matters  of  war,  the  most  uncompromising  and  blood 
thirsty  of  the  community.  However,  he  replied, 
coolly,  that  his  moral  impulses  and  his  feelings  of  duty 
did  not  exactly  impel  him  in  this  direction,  and  that 
he  was  of  opinion  that  war  was  a  business  in  which  a 
man  could  not  engage  with  safety  to  his  conscience, 
unless  his  conscience  actually  drove  him  into  it ;  and 
that  this  made  all  the  difference  between  heroic  battle 
and  murderous  strife.  The  good  minister  had  nothing 
very  effectual  to  answer  to  this,  and  took  his  leave, 
with  a  still  stronger  opinion  than  before  that  there 
was  something  amiss  in  his  pupil's  mind. 

By  this  time,  this  thwarting  day  had  gone  On 
through  its  course  of  little  and  great  impediments  to 
his  pursuit,  —  the  discouragements  of  trifling  and 
earthly  business,  of  purely  impertinent  interruption, 


68  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

of  severe  and  disheartening  opposition  from  the  pow 
erful  counteraction  of  different  kinds  of  mind, — until 
the  hour  had  come  at  which  he  had  arranged  to  meet 
Rose  Garfield.  I  am  afraid  the  poor  thwarted  youth 
did  not  go  to  his  love-tryst  in  any  very  amiable  mood ; 
but  rather,  perhaps,  reflecting  how  all  things  earthly 
and  immortal,  and  love  among  the  rest,  whichever 
category,  of  earth  or  heaven,  it  may  belong  to,  set 
themselves  against  man's  progress  in  any  pursuit  that 
he  seeks  to  devote  himself  to.  It  is  one  struggle,  the 
moment  he  undertakes  such  a  thing,  of  everything 
else  in  the  world  to  impede  him. 

However,  as  it  turned  out,  it  was  a  pleasant  and 
happy  interview  that  he  had  with  Rose  that  after 
noon.  The  girl  herself  was  in  a  happy,  tuneful  mood, 
and  met  him  with  such  simplicity,  threw  such  a  light 
of  sweetness  over  his  soul,  that  Septimius  almost 
forgot  all  the  wild  cares  of  the  day,  and  walked  by  her 
side  with  a  quiet  fulness  of  pleasure  that  was  new  to 
him.  She  reconciled  him,  in  some  secret  way,  to  life 
as  it  was,  to  imperfection,  to  decay ;  without  any 
help  from  her  intellect,  but  through  the  influence  of 
her  character,  she  seemed,  not  to  solve,  but  to  smooth 
away,  problems  that  troubled  him ;  merely  by  being, 
by  womanhood,  by  simplicity,  she  interpreted  God's 
ways  to  him ;  she  softened  the  stoniness  that  was 
gathering  about  his  heart.  And  so  they  had  a  delight 
ful  time  of  talking,  and  laughing,  and  smelling  to 
flowers ;  and  when  they  were  parting,  Septimius  said 
to  her,  — 

"  Rose,  you  have  convinced  me  that  this  is  a  most 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  69 

happy  world,  and  that  Life  has  its  two  children,  Birth 
and  Death,  and  is  bound  to  prize  them  equally ;  and 
that  God  is  very  kind  to  his  earthly  children ;  and 
that  all  will  go  well." 

"And  have  I  convinced  you  of  all  this?"  replied 
Rose,  with  a  pretty  laughter.  "  It  is  all  true,  no 
doubt,  but  I  should  not  have  known  how  to  argue  for 
it.  But  you  are  very  sweet,  and  have  not  frightened 
me  to-day." 

"Do  I  ever  frighten  you  then,  Rose1?"  asked  Sep- 
timius,  bending  his  black  brow  upon  her  with  a  look 
of  surprise  and  displeasure. 

"  Yes,  sometimes,"  said  Rose,  facing  him  with  cour 
age,  and  smiling  upon  the  cloud  so  as  to  drive  it 
away;  "when  you  frown  upon  me  like  that,  I  am  a 
little  afraid  you  will  beat  me,  all  in  good  time." 

"Now,"  said  Septimius,  laughing  again,  "you  shall 
have  your  choice,  to  be  beaten  on  the  spot,  or  suffer 
another  kind  of  punishment,  —  which  1 " 

So  saying,  he  snatched  her  to  him,  and  strove  to 
kiss  her,  while  Rose,  laughing  and  struggling,  cried 
out,  "The  beating!  the  beating!"  But  Septimius 
relented  not,  though  it  was  only  Rose's  cheek  that  he 
succeeded  in  touching.  In  truth,  except  for  that  first 
one,  at  the  moment  of  their  plighted  troths,  I  doubt 
whether  Septimius  ever  touched  those  soft,  sweet  lips, 
where  the  smiles  dwelt  and  the  little  pouts.  He  now 
returned  to  his  study,  and  questioned  with  himself 
whether  he  should  touch  that  weary,  ugly,  yellow, 
blurred,  unintelligible,  bewitched,  mysterious,  bullet- 
penetrated,  blood-stained  manuscript  again.  There 


70  SEPTiMIUS  FELTON. 

was  an  undefinable  reluctance  to  do  so,  and  at  the 
same  time  an  enticement  (irresistible,  as  it  proved) 
drawing  him  towards  it.  He  yielded,  and  taking  it 
from  his  desk,  in  which  the  precious,  fatal  treas 
ure  was  locked  up,  he  plunged  into  it  again,  and 
this  time  with  a  certain  degree  of  success.  He 
found  the  line  which  had  before  gleamed  out,  and 
vanished  again,  and  which  now  started  out  in  strong 
relief;  even  as  when  sometimes  we  see  a  certain 
arrangement  of  stars  in  the  heavens,  and  again  lose  it, 
by  not  seeing  its  individual  stars  in  the  same  relation 
as  before ;  even  so,  looking  at  the  manuscript  in  a 
different  way,  Septimius  saw  this  fragment  of  a  sen 
tence,  and  saw,  moreover,  what  was  necessary  to  give 
it  a  certain  meaning.  "  Set  the  root  in  a  grave,  and 
wait  for  what  shall  blossom.  It  will  be  very  rich,  and 
full  of  juice."  This  was  the  purport,  he  now  felt  sure, 
of  the  sentence  he  had  lighted  upon ;  and  he  took  it 
to  refer  to  the  mode  of  producing  something  that  was 
essential  to  the  thing  to  be  concocted.  It  might 
have  only  a  moral  being ;  or,  as  is  generally  the  case, 
the  moral  and  physical  truth  went  hand  in  hand. 

While  Septimius  was  busying  himself  in  this  way, 
the  summer  advanced,  and  with  it  there  appeared  a 
new  character,  making  her  way  into  our  pages.  This 
was  a  slender  and  pale  girl,  whom  Septimius  was 
once  startled  to  find,  when  he  ascended  his  hill-top, 
to  take  his  walk  to  and  fro  upon  the  accustomed  path, 
which  he  had  now  worn  deep. 

What  was  stranger,  she  sat  down  close  beside  the 
grave,  which  none  but  he  and  the  minister  knew  to  be 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  71 

a  grave;  that  little  hillock,  which  he  had  levelled 
a  little,  and  had  planted  with  various  flowers  and 
shrubs ;  which  the  summer  had  fostered  into  richness, 
the  poor  young  man  below  having  contributed  what 
he  could,  and  tried  to  render  them  as  beautiful  as  he 
might,  in  remembrance  of  his  own  beauty.  Septimius 
wished  to  conceal  the  fact  of  its  being  a  grave  :  not 
that  he  was  tormented  with  any  sense  that  he  had 
done  wrong  in  shooting  the  young  man,  which  had 
been  done  in  fair  battle ;  but  still  it  was  not  the 
pleasantest  of  thoughts,  that  he  had  laid  a  beautiful 
human  creature,  so  fit  for  the  enjoyment  of  life,  there, 
when  his  own  dark  brow,  his  own  troubled  breast, 
might  better,  he  could  not  but  acknowledge,  have 
been  covered  up  there.  [Perhaps  there  might  some 
times  be  something  fantastically  gay  in  the  language  and 
behavior  of  the  girl.~\ 

Well ;  but  then,  on  this  flower  and  shrub  disguised 
grave,  sat  this  unknown  form  of  a  girl,  with  a  slender, 
pallid,  melancholy  grace  about  her,  simply  dressed  in 
a  dark  attire,  which  she  drew  loosely  about  her.  At 
first  glimpse,  Septimius  fancied  that  it  might  be  Rose ; 
but  it  needed  only  a  glance  to  undeceive  him;  her 
figure  was  of  another  character  from  the  vigorous, 
though  slight  and  elastic  beauty  of  Rose ;  this  was  a 
drooping  grace,  and  when  he  came  near  enough  to 
see  her  face,  he  saw  that  those  large,  dark,  melancholy 
eyes,  with  which  she  had  looked  at  him,  had  never 
met  his  gaze  before. 

"  Good  morrow,  fair  maiden,"  said  Septimius,  with 
such  courtesy  as  he  knew  how  to  use  (which,  to  say 


72  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

truth,  was  of  a  rustic  order,  his  way  of  life  having 
brought  him  little  into  female  society).  "  There  is  a 
nice  air  here  on  the  hill-top,  this  sultry  morning 
below  the  hill ! " 

As  he  spoke,  he  continued  to  look  wonderingly  at  the 
strange  maiden,  half  fancying  that  she  might  be  some 
thing  that  had  grown  up  out  of  the  grave ;  so  unex 
pected  she  was,  so  simply  unlike  anything  that  had 
before  come  there. 

The  girl  did  not  speak  to  him,  but  as  she  sat  by  the 
grave  she  kept  weeding  out  the  little  white  blades  of 
faded  autumn  grass  and  yellow  pine-spikes,  peering 
into  the  soil  as  if  to  see  what  it  was  all  made  of,  and 
everything  that  was  growing  there;  and  in  truth, 
whether  by  Septimius's  care  or  no,  there  seemed  to  be 
several  kinds  of  flowers,  —  those  little  asters  that 
abound  everywhere,  and  golden  flowers,  such  as  au 
tumn  supplies  with  abundance.  She  seemed  to  be  in 
quest  of  something,  and  several  times  plucked  a  leaf 
and  examined  it  carefully ;  then  threw  it  down  again, 
and  shook  her  head.  At  last  she  lifted  up  her  pale 
face,  and,  fixing  her  eyes  quietly  on  Septimius,  spoke : 
"  It  is  not  here  ! " 

A  very  sweet  voice  it  was,  —  plaintive,  low,  —  and 
she  spoke  to  Septimius  as  if  she  were  familiar  with 
him,  and  had  something  to  do  with  him.  He  was 
greatly  interested,  not  being  able  to  imagine  who  the 
strange  girl  was,  or  whence  she  came,  or  what,  of  all 
things,  could  be  her  reason  for  coming  and  sitting 
down  by  this  grave,  and  apparently  botanizing  upon 
it,  in  quest  of  some  particular  plant. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  73 

"Are  you  in  search  of  flowers  1"  asked  Septimius. 
"  This  is  but  a  barren  spot  for  them,  and  this  is  not  a 
good  season.  In  the  meadows,  and  along  the  margin 
of  the  watercourses,  you  might  find  the  fringed  gen 
tian  at  this  time.  In  the  woods  there  are  several 
pretty  flowers,  —  the  side-saddle  flower,  the  anemone ; 
violets  are  plentiful  in  spring,  and  make  the  whole 
hillside  blue.  But  this  hill-top,  with  its  soil  strewn 
over  a  heap  of  pebble-stones,  is  no  place  for  flowers." 

"  The  soil  is  fit,"  said  the  maiden,  "  but  the  flower 
has  not  sprung  up." 

"What  flower  do  you  speak  of?"  asked  Septimius. 

"One  that  is  not  here,"  said  the  pale  girl.  "No 
matter.  I  will  look  for  it  again  next  spring." 

"Do  you,  then,  dwell  hereabout]"  inquired  Sep 
timius. 

"  Surely,"  said  the  maiden,  with  a  look  of  surprise ; 
"  where  else  should  I  dwell  ]  My  home  is  on  this 
hill-top." 

It  not  a  little  startled  Septimius,  as  may  be  sup 
posed,  to  find  his  paternal  inheritance,  of  which  he 
and  his  forefathers  had  been  the  only  owners  since 
the  world  began  (for  they  held  it  by  an  Indian  deed), 
claimed  as  a  home  and  abiding-place  by  this  fair,  pale, 
strange-acting  maiden,  who  spoke  as  if  she  had  as 
much  right  there  as  if  she  had  grown  up  out  of  the  soil 
like  one  of  the  wild,  indigenous  flowers  which  she  had 
been  gazing  at  and  handling.  However  that  might  be, 
the  maiden  seemednow  about  to  depart,  rising,  giving 
a  farewell  touch  or  two  to  the  little  verdant  hillock, 
which  looked  much  the  neater  for  her  ministrations. 
4 


74  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"Are  you  going  1"  said  Septimius,  looking  at  her 
in  wonder. 

"  For  a  time,"  said  she. 

"  And  shall  I  see  you  again  ? "  asked  he. 

"  Surely,"  said  the  maiden,  "  this  is  my  walk,  along 
the  brow  of  the  hill." 

It  again  smote  Septimius  with  a  strange  thrill  of 
surprise  to  find  the  walk  which  he  himself  had  made, 
treading  it,  and  smoothing  it,  and  beating  it  down 
with  the  pressure  of  his  continual  feet,  from  the  time 
when  the  tufted  grass  made  the  sides  all  uneven,  until 
now,  when  it  was  such  a  pathway  as  you  may  see 
through  a  wood,  or  over  a  field,  where  many  feet  pass 
every  day,  —  to  find  this  track  and  exemplification  of 
his  own  secret  thoughts  and  plans  and  emotions,  this 
writing  of  his  body,  impelled  by  the  struggle  and 
movement  of  his  soul,  claimed  as  her  own  by  a  strange 
girl  with  melancholy  eyes  and  voice,  who  seemed  to 
have  such  a  sad  familiarity  with  him. 

"  You  are  welcome  to  come  here,"  said  he,  endeavor 
ing  at  least  to  keep  such  hold  on  his  own  property  as 
was  implied  in  making  a  hospitable  surrender  of  it  to 
another. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "a  person  should  always  be 
welcome  to  his  own." 

A  faint  smile  seemed  to  pass  over  her  face  as  she 
said  this,  vanishing,  however,  immediately  into  the 
melancholy  of  her  usual  expression.  She  went  along 
Septimius's  path,  while  he  stood  gazing  at  her  till  she 
reached  the  brow  where  it  sloped  towards  Robert  Hag- 
burn's  house ;  then  she  turned,  and  seemed  to  wave  a 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  75 

slight  farewell  towards  the  young  man,  and  began  to 
descend.  When  her  figure  had  entirely  sunk  behind 
the  brow  of  the  hill,  Septimius  slowly  followed  along 
the  ridge,  meaning  to  watch  from  that  elevated  station 
the  course  she  would  take ;  although,  indeed,  he  would 
not  have  been  surprised  if  he  had  seen  nothing,  no 
trace  of  her  in  the  whole  nearness  or  distance ;  in 
short,  if  she  had  been  a  freak,  an  illusion,  of  a  hard 
working  mind  that  had  put  itself  ajar  by  deeply 
brooding  on  abstruse  matters,  an  illusion  of  eyes  that 
he  had  tried  too  much  by  poring  over  the  inscrutable 
manuscript,  and  of  intellect  that  was  mystified  and 
bewildered  by  trying  to  grasp  things  that  could  not  be 
grasped.  A  thing  of  witchcraft,  a  sort  of  fungus- 
growth  out  of  the  grave,  an  unsubstantiality  alto 
gether  ;  although,  certainly,  she  had  weeded  the  grave 
with  bodily  fingers,  at  all  events.  Still  he  had  so 
much  of  the  hereditary  mysticism  of  his  race  in  him, 
that  he  might  have  held  her  supernatural,  only  that 
on  reaching  the  brow  of  the  hill  he  saw  her  feet 
approach  the  dwelling  of  Robert  Hagburn's  mother, 
who,  moreover,  appeared  at  the  threshold  beckoning 
her  to  come,  with  a  motherly,  hospitable  air,  that 
denoted  she  knew  the  strange  girl,  and  recognized  her 
as  human. 

It  did  not  lessen  Septimius's  surprise,  however,  to 
think  that  such  a  singular  being  was  established  in 
the  neighborhood  without  his  knowledge ;  considered 
as  a  real  occurrence  of  this  world,  it  seemed  even 
more  unaccountable  than  if  it  had  been  a  thing  of 
ghostology  and  witchcraft.  Continually  through  the 


76  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

day  the  incident  kept  introducing  its  recollection 
among  his  thoughts  and  studies ;  continually,  as  he 
paced  along  his  path,  this  form  seemed  to  hurry  along 
by  his  side  on  the  track  that  she  had  claimed  for  her 
own,  and  he  thought  of  her  singular  threat  or  promise, 
whichever  it  were  to  be  held,  that  he  should  have  a 
companion  there  in  future.  In  the  decline  of  the  day, 
when  he  met  the  schoolmistress  coming  home  from 
her  little  seminary,  he  snatched  the  first  opportunity 
to  mention  the  apparition  of  the  morning,  and  ask 
Rose  if  she  knew  anything  of  her. 

"Very  little,"  said  Rose,  "but  she  is  flesh  and 
blood,  of  that  you  may  be  quite  sure.  She  is  a  girl 
who  has  been  shut  up  in  Boston  by  the  siege  ;  perhaps 
a  daughter  of  one  of  the  British  officers,  and  her 
health  being  frail,  she  requires  better  air  than  they 
have  there,  and  so  permission  was  got  for  her,  from 
General  Washington,  to  come  and  live  in  the  country ; 
as  any  one  may  see,  our  liberties  have  nothing  to  fear 
from  this  poor  brain-stricken  girl.  And  Robert  Hag- 
burn,  having  to  bring  a  message  from  camp  to  the 
selectmen  here,  had  it  in  charge  to  bring  the  girl, 
whom  his  mother  has  taken  to  board." 

"  Then  the  poor  thing  is  crazy  1 "  asked  Septimius. 

"  A  little  brain-touched,  that  is  all,"  replied  Rose, 
"  owing  to  some  grief  that  she  has  had ;  but  she  is 
quite  harmless,  Robert  was  told  to  say,  and  needs 
little  or  no  watching,  and  will  get  a  kind  of  fantastic 
happiness  for  herself,  if  only  she  is  allowed  to  ramble 
about  at  her  pleasure.  If  thwarted,  she  might  be 
very  wild  and  miserable." 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  77 

"  Have  you  spoken  with  her  1 "  asked  Septimius. 

"A  word  or  two  this  morning,  as  I  was  going  to  my 
school,"  said  Rose.  "  She  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
smiled,  and  said  we  would  be  friends,  and  that  I 
should  show  her  where  the  flowers  grew ;  for  that  she 
had  a  little  spot  of  her  own  that  she  wanted  to  plant 
with  them.  And  she  asked  me  if  the  Sanguined  san- 
guinissima  grew  hereabout.  I  should  not  have  taken 
her  to  be  ailing  in  her  wits,  only  for  a  kind  of  free- 
spokenness  and  familiarity,  as  if  we  had  been  ac 
quainted  a  long  while ;  or  as  if  she  had  lived  in  some 
country  where  there  are  no  forms  and  impediments  in 
people's  getting  acquainted." 

*'  Did  you  like  her  1 "  inquired  Septimius. 

"  Yes ;  almost  loved  her  at  first  sight,"  answered 
Rose,  "  and  I  hope  may  do  her  some  little  good,  poor 
thing,  being  of  her  own  age,  and  the  only  companion, 
hereabouts,  whom  she  is  likely  to  find.  But  she  has 
been  well  educated,  and  is  a  lady,  that  is  easy  to  see." 

"It  is  very  strange,"  said  Septimius,  " but  I  fear  I 
shall  be  a  good  deal  interrupted  in  my  thoughts  and 
studies,  if  she  insists  on  haunting  my  hill-top  as  much 
as  she  tells  me.  My  meditations  are  perhaps  of  a 
little  too  much  importance  to  be  shoved  aside  for  the 
sake  of  gratifying  a  crazy  girl's  fantasies," 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  hard  thing  to  say  ! "  exclaimed  Rose, 
shocked  at  her  lover's  cold  egotism,  though  not  giving 
it  that  title.  "  Let  the  poor  thing  glide  quietly  along 
in  the  path,  though  it  be  yours.  Perhaps,  after  a 
while,  she  will  help  your  thoughts." 

"My  thoughts,"  said  Septimius,   "are   of  a  kind 


78  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

that  can  have  no  help  from  any  one ;  if  from  any,  it 
would  only  be  from  some  wise,  long-studied,  and 
experienced  scientific  man,  who  could  enlighten  me  as 
to  the  bases  and  foundation  of  things,  as  to  mystic 
writings,  as  to  chemical  elements,  as  to  the  mysteries 
of  language,  as  to  the  principles  and  system  on  which 
we  were  created.  Methinks  these  are  not  to  be  taught 
me  by  a  girl  touched  in  the  wits." 

"  I  fear,"  replied  Rose  Garfield  with  gravity,  and 
drawing  imperceptibly  apart  from  him,  "that  no 
woman  can  help  you  much.  You  despise  woman's 
thought,  and  have  no  need  of  her  affection." 

Septimius  said  something  soft  and  sweet,  and  in  a 
measure  true,  in  regard  to  the  necessity  he  felt  for  the 
affection  and  sympathy  of  one  woman  at  least  —  the 
one  now  by  his  side  —  to  keep  his  life  warm  and  to 
make  the  empty  chambers  of  his  heart  comfortable. 
But  even  while  he  spoke,  there  was  something  that 
dragged  upon  his  tongue ;  for  he  felt  that  the  solitary 
pursuit  in  which  he  was  engaged  carried  him  apart 
from  the  sympathy  of  which  he  spoke,  and  that  he 
was  concentrating  his  efforts  and  interest  entirely 
upon  himself,  and  that  the  more  he  succeeded  the 
more  remotely  he  should  be  carried  away,  and  that  his 
final  triumph  would  be  the  complete  seclusion  of 
himself  from  all  that  breathed,  —  the  converting  him, 
from  an  interested  actor,  into  a  cold  and  disconnected 
spectator  of  all  mankind.'s  warm  and  sympathetic 
life.  So,  as  it  turned  out,  this  interview  with  Rose 
was  one  of  those  in  which,  coming  no  one  knows 
from  .whence,  a  nameless  cloud  springs  up  between 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  79 

two  lovers,  and  keeps  them  apart  from  one  another  by 
a  cold,  sullen  spell.  Usually,  however,  it  requires 
only  one  word,  spoken  out  of  the  heart,  to  break  that 
spell,  and  compel  the  invisible,  unsympathetic  medium 
which  the  enemy  of  love  has  stretched  cunningly 
between  them,  to  vanish,  and  let  them  come  closer 
together  than  ever ;  but,  in  this  case,  it  might  be  that 
the  love  was  the  illusive  state,  and  the  estrangement 
the  real  truth,  the  disenchanted  verity.  At  all  events, 
when  the  feeling  passed  away,  in  Rose's  heart  there 
was  no  reaction,  no  warmer  love,  as  is  generally  the 
case.  As  for  Septimius,  he  had  other  things  to  think 
about,  and  when  he  next  met  Rose  Garfield,  had  for 
gotten  that  he  had  been  sensible  of  a  little  wounded 
feeling,  on  her  part,  at  parting. 

By  dint  of  continued  poring  over  the  manuscript, 
Septimius  now  began  to  comprehend  that  it  was 
written  in  a  singular  mixture  of  Latin  and  ancient 
English,  with  constantly  recurring  paragraphs  of  what 
he  was  convinced  was  a  mystic  writing ;  and  these 
recurring  passages  of  complete  unintelligibility  seemed 
to  be  necessary  to  the  proper  understanding  of  any 
part  of  the  document.  What  was  discoverable  was 
quaint,  curious,  but  thwarting  and  perplexing,  because 
it  seemed  to  imply  some  very  great  purpose,  only  to 
be  brought  out  by  what  was  hidden. 

Septimius  had  read,  in  the  old  college  library  during 
his  pupilage,  a  work  on  ciphers  and  cryptic  writing, 
but  being  drawn  to  it  only  by  his  curiosity  respecting 
whatever  was  hidden,  and  not  expecting  ever  to  use 
his  knowledge,  he  had  obtained  only  the  barest  idea 


80  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

of  what  was  necessary  to  the  deciphering  a  secret 
passage.  Judging  by  what  he  could  pick  out,  he 
would  have  thought  the  whole  essay  was  upon  the 
moral  conduct ;  all  parts  of  that  he  could  make  out 
seeming  to  refer  to  a  certain  ascetic  rule  of  life ;  to 
denial  of  pleasures ;  these  topics  being  repeated  and 
insisted  on  everywhere,  although  without  any  dis 
coverable  reference  to  religious  or  moral  motives ; 
and  always  when  the  author  seemed  verging  towards 
a  definite  purpose,  he  took  refuge  in  his  cipher.  Yet 
withal,  imperfectly  (or  not  at  all,  rather)  as  Sep- 
timius  could  comprehend  its  purport,  this  strange 
writing  had  a  mystic  influence,  that  wrought  upon 
his  imagination,  and  with  the  late  singular  incidents 
of  his  life,  his  continual  thought  on  this  one  subject, 
his  walk  on  the  hill-top,  lonely,  or  only  interrupted 
by  the  pale  shadow  of  a  girl,  combined  to  set  him 
outside  of  the  living  world.  Rose  Garfield  perceived 
it,  knew  and  felt  that  he  was  gliding  away  from  her, 
and  met  him  with  a  reserve  which  she  could  not 
overcome. 

It  was  a  pity  that  his  early  friend,  Robert  Hag- 
burn,  could  not  at  present  have  any  influence  over 
him,  having  now  regularly  joined  the  Continental 
Army,  and  being  engaged  in  the  expedition  of  Arnold 
against  Quebec.  Indeed,  this  war,  in  which  the  coun 
try  was  so  earnestly  and  enthusiastically  engaged,  had 
perhaps  an  influence  on  Septimius's  state  of  mind, 
for  it  put  everybody  into  an  exaggerated  and  un 
natural  state,  united  enthusiasms  of  all  sorts,  height 
ened  everybody  either  into  its  own  heroism  or  into 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  81 

the  peculiar  madness  to  which  each  person  was  in 
clined  ;  and  Septimius  walked  so  much  the  more 
wildly  on  his  lonely  course,  because  the  people  were 
going  enthusiastically  on  another.  In  times  of  revo 
lution  and  public  disturbance  all  absurdities  are  more 
unrestrained ;  the  measure  of  calm  sense,  the  habits, 
the  orderly  decency,  are  partially  lost.  More  people 
become  insane,  I  should  suppose;  offences  against 
public  morality,  female  license,  are  more  numerous ; 
suicides,  murders,  all  ungovernable  outbreaks  of  men's 
thoughts,  embodying  themselves  in  wild  acts,  take 
place  more  frequently,  and  with  less  horror  to  the 
lookers-on.  So  [with]  Septimius ;  there  was  not,  as 
there  would  have  been  at  an  ordinary  time,  the  same 
calmness  and  truth  in  the  public  observation,  scru 
tinizing  everything  with  its  keen  criticism,  in  that 
time  of  seething  opinions  and  overturned  principles ; 
a  new  time  was  coming,  and  Septimius's  phase  of 
novelty  attracted  less  attention  so  far  as  it  was 
known. 

So  he  continued  to  brood  over  the  manuscript  in 
his  study,  and  to  hide  it  under  lock  and  key  in  a 
recess  of  the  wall,  as  if  it  were  a  secret  of  murder; 
to  walk,  too,  on  his  hill-top,  where  at  sunset  always 
came  the  pale,  crazy  maiden,  who  still  seemed  to 
watch  the  little  hillock  with  a  pertinacious  care  that 
was  strange  to  Septimius.  By  and  by  came  the 
winter  and  the  deep  snows ;  and  even  then,  unwilling 
to  give  up  his  habitual  place  of  exercise,  the  mo- 
notonousness  of  which  promoted  his  wish  to  keep 
before  his  mind  one  subject  of  thought,  Septimius 
4*  F 


82  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

wore  a  path  through  the  snow,  and  still  walked  there. 
Here,  however,  he  lost  for  a  time  the  companionship 
of  the  girl;  for  when  the  first  snow  came,  she  shiv 
ered,  and  looked  at  its  white  heap  over  the  hillock, 
and  said  to  Septimius,  "  I  will  look  for  it  again  in 
spring." 

[Septimius  is  at  the  point  of  despair  for  want  of  a 
guide  in  his  studies.] 

The  winter  swept  over,  and  spring  was  just  begin 
ning  to  spread  its  green  flush  over  the  more  favored 
exposures  of  the  landscape,  although  on  the  north 
side  of  stone  walls,  and  the  northern  nooks  of  hills, 
there  were  still  the  remnants  of  snow-drifts.  Sep- 
timius's  hill-top,  which  was  of  a  soil  which  quickly  rid 
itself  of  moisture,  now  began  to  be  a  genial  place  of 
resort  to  him,  and  he  was  one  morning  taking  his 
walk  there,  meditating  upon  the  still  insurmountable 
difficulties  which  interposed  themselves  against  the 
interpretation  of  the  manuscript,  yet  feeling  the  new 
gash  of  spring  bring  hope  to  him,  and  the  energy  and 
elasticity  for  new  effort.  Thus  pacing  to  and  fro,  he 
was  surprised,  as  he  turned  at  the  extremity  of  his 
walk,  to  see  a  figure  advancing  towards  him ;  not 
that  of  the  pale  maiden  whom  he  was  accustomed  to 
see  there,  but  a  figure  as  widely  different  as  possible. 
[lie  sees  a  spider  dangling  from  his  web,  and  examines 
him  minutely.]  It  was  that  of  a  short,  broad,  some 
what  elderly  man,  dressed  in  a  surtout  that  had  a 
half-military  air,  the  cocked  hat  of  the  period,  well 
worn,  and  having  a  fresher  spot  in  it,  whence,  per 
haps,  a  cockade  had  been  recently  taken  off;  and 


SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON.  83 

this  personage  carried  a  well-blackened  German  pipe 
in  his  hand,  which,  as  he  walked,  he  applied  to  his 
lips,  and  puffed  out  volumes  of  smoke,  filling  the 
pleasant  western  breeze  with  the  fragrance  of  some 
excellent  Virginia.  He  came  slowly  along,  and  Sep- 
timius,  slackening  his  pace  a  little,  came  as  slowly  to 
meet  him,  feeling  somewhat  indignant,  to  be  sure, 
that  anybody  should  intrude  on  his  sacred  hill ;  until 
at  last  they  met,  as  it  happened,  close  by  the  memo 
rable  little  hillock,  on  which  the  grass  and  flower- 
leaves  also  had  begun  to  sprout.  The  stranger 
looked  keenly  at  Septimius,  made  a  careless  salute 
by  putting  his  hand  up,  and  took  the  pipe  from  his 
mouth. 

"  Mr.  Septimius  Felton,  I  suppose  1 "  said  he. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  replied  Septimius. 

"  I  am  Doctor  Jabez  Portsoaken,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  late  surgeon  of  his  Majesty's  sixteenth  regiment, 
which  I  quitted  when  his  Majesty's  army  quitted 
Boston,  being  desirous  of  trying  my  fortunes  in  your 
country,  and  giving  the  people  the  benefit  of  my 
scientific  knowledge  ;  also  to  practise  some  new  modes 
of  medical  science,  which  I  could  not  so  well  do  in 
the  army." 

"  I  think  you  are  quite  right,  Doctor  Jabez  Port 
soaken,"  said  Septimius,  a  little  confused  and  bewil 
dered,  so  unused  had  he  become  to  the  society  of 
strangers. 

"  And  as  to  you,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  who  had  a 
very  rough,  abrupt  way  of  speaking,  "  I  have  to  thank 
you  for  a  favor  done  me." 


84  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"Have  you,  sir?"  said  Septimius,  who  was  quite 
sure  that  he  had  never  seen  the  doctor's  uncouth  fig 
ure  before. 

"  0,  ay,  me,"  said  the  doctor,  puffing  coolly,  — • 
"me,  in  the  person  of  my  niece,  a  sickly,  poor, 
nervous  little  thing,  who  is  very  fond  of  walking  on 
your  hill-top,  and  whom  you  do  not  send  away." 

"You  are  the  uncle  of  Sybil  DacyT  said  Sep 
timius. 

"  Even  so,  her  mother's  brother,"  said  the  doctor, 
with  a  grotesque  bow.  "  So,  being  on  a  visit,  the 
first  that  the  siege  allowed  me  to  pay,  to  see  how 
the  girl  was  getting  on,  I  take  the  opportunity  to  pay 
my  respects  to  you ;  the  more  that  I  understand  you 
to  be  a  young  man  of  some  learning,  and  it  is  not 
often  that  one  meets  with  such  in  this  country." 

"  No,"  said  Septimius,  abruptly,  for  indeed  he  had 
half  a  suspicion  that  this  queer  Doctor  Portsoaken 
was  not  altogether  sincere,  —  that,  in  short,  he  was 
making  game  of  him.  "  You  have  been  misinformed. 
I  know  nothing  whatever  that  is  worth  knowing." 

"  Oho  !  "  said  the  doctor,  with  a  long  puff  of  smoke 
out  of  his  pipe.  "  If  you  are  convinced  of  that,  you 
are  one  of  the  wisest  men  I  have  met  with,  young  as 
you  are.  I  must  have  been  twice  your  age  before  I 
got  so  far;  and  even  now,  I  am  sometimes  fool 
enough  to  doubt  the  only  thing  I  was  ever  sure  of 
knowing.  But  come,  you  make  me  only  the  more 
earnest  to  collogue  with  you.  If  we  put  both  our 
shortcomings  together,  they  may  make  up  an  item  of 
positive  knowledge." 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  85 

"  What  use  can  one  make  of  abortive  thoughts  1 " 
said  Septimius. 

"  Do  your  speculations  take  a  scientific  turn  1 "  said 
Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  There  I  can  meet  you  with  as 
much  false  knowledge  and  empiricism  as  you  can  bring 
for  the  life  of  you.  Have  you  ever  tried  to  study 
spiders  1  —  there  is  my  strong  point  now  !  I  have 
hung  my  whole  interest  in  life  on  a  spider's  web." 

"I  know  nothing  of  them,  sir,"  said  Septimius, 
"except  to  crush  them  when  I  see  them  running 
across  the  floor,  or  to  brush  away  the  festoons  of  their 
webs  when  they  have  chanced  to  escape  my  Aunt 
Keziah's  broom." 

"  Crush  them  !  Brush  away  their  webs !  "  cried 
the  doctor,  apparently  in  a  rage,  and  shaking  his  pipe 
at  Septimius.  "  Sir,  it  is  sacrilege  !  Yes,  it  is  worse 
than  murder.  Every  thread  of  a  spider's  web  is  worth 
more  than  a  thread  of  gold ;  and  before  twenty  years 
are  passed,  a  housemaid  will  be  beaten  to  death  with 
her  own  broomstick  if  she  disturbs  one  of  these  sacred 
animals.  But,  come  again.  Shall  we  talk  of  botany, 
the  virtues  of  herbs  ?  " 

"  My  Aunt  Keziah  should  meet  you  there,  doctor," 
said  Septimius.  "She  has  a  native  and  original  ac 
quaintance  with  their  virtues,  and  can  save  and  kill 
with  any  of  the  faculty.  As  for  myself,  my  studies 
have  not  turned  that  way." 

"  They  ought !  they  ought ! "  said  the  doctor,  look 
ing  meaningly  at  him.  "  The  whole  thing  lies  in  the 
blossom  of  an  herb.  Now,  you  ought  to  begin  with 
what  lies  about  you ;  on  this  little  hillock,  for  in- 


86  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

stance  "  ;  and  looking  at  the  grave  beside  which  they 
were  standing,  he  gave  it  a  kick  which  went  to  Sep- 
timius's  heart,  there  seemed  to  be  such  a  spite  and 
scorn  in  it.  "  On  this  hillock  I  see  some  specimens  of 
plants  which  would  be  worth  your  looking  at." 

Bending  down  towards  the  grave  as  he  spoke,  he 
seemed  to  give  closer  attention  to  what  he  saw  there ; 
keeping  in  his  stooping  position  till  his  face  began  to 
get  a  purple  aspect,  for  the  erudite  doctor  was  of  that 
make  of  man  who  has  to  be  kept  right  side  uppermost 
with  care.  At  length  he  raised  himself,  muttering, 
"  Very  curious  !  very  curious  !  " 

"Do  you  see  anything  remarkable  there]"  asked 
Septimius,  with  some  interest. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  bluntly.  "  No  matter 
what !  The  time  will  come  when  you  may  like  to 
know  it." 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  to  my  residence  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  Doctor  Portsoaken  1 "  asked  Septimius. 
"  I  am  not  a  learned  man,  and  have  little  or  no  title 
to  converse  with  one,  except  a  sincere  desire  to  be 
wiser  than  I  am.  If  you  can  be  moved  on  such  terms 
to  give  me  your  companionship,  I  shall  be  thankful." 

"  Sir,  I  am  with  you,"  said  Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  know,  in  the  sure  belief  (for  I  will 
be  frank  with  you)  that  it  will  add  to  the  amount  of 
dangerous  folly  now  in  your  mind,  and  help  you  on 
the  way  to  ruin.  Take  your  choice,  therefore,  whether 
to  know  me  further  or  not." 

"  I  neither  shrink  nor  fear,  —  neither  hope  much/' 
said  Septimius,  quietly.  "Anything  that  you  can 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  87 

communicate — if  anything  you  can  —  I  shall  fearlessly 
receive,  and  return  you  such  thanks  as  it  may  be  found 
to  deserve." 

So  saying,  he  led  the  way  down  the  hill,  by  the 
steep  path  that  descended  abruptly  upon  the  rear  of 
his  bare  and  unadorned  little  dwelling;  the  doctor 
following  with  much  foul  language  (for  he  had  a  terri 
ble  habit  of  swearing)  at  the  difficulties  of  the  way,  to 
which  his  short  legs  were  ill  adapted.  Aunt  Keziah 
met  them  at  the  door,  and  looked  sharply  at  the  doc 
tor,  who  returned  the  gaze  with  at  least  as  much 
keenness,  muttering  between  his  teeth,  as  he  did  so ; 
and  to  say  the  truth,  Aunt  Keziah  was  as  worthy  of 
being  sworn  at  as  any  woman  could  well  be,  for  what 
ever  she  might  have  been  in  her  younger  days,  she  was 
at  this  time  as  strange  a  mixture  of  an  Indian  squaw  and 
herb  doctress,  with  the  crabbed  old  maid,  and  a  min 
gling  of  the  witch-aspect  running  through  all,  as  could 
well  be  imagined ;  and  she  had  a  handkerchief  over 
her  head,  and  she  was  of  hue  a  dusky  yellow,  and  she 
looked  very  cross.  As  Septimius  ushered  the  doctor 
into  his  study,  and  was  about  to  follow  him,  Aunt 
Keziah  drew  him  back. 

"  Septimius,  who  is  this  you  have  brought  here  1 " 
asked  she. 

"A  man  I  have  met  on  the  hill,"  answered  her 
nephew  ;  "  a  Doctor  Portsoaken  he  calls  himself,  from 
the  old  country.  He  says  he  has  knowledge  of  herbs 
and  other  mysteries  ;  in  your  own  line,  it  may  be.  If 
you  want  to  talk  with  him,  give  the  man  his  dinner, 
and  find  out  what  there  is  in  him." 


88  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  And  what  do  you  want  of  him  yourself,  Septim 
ius'?"  asked  she. 

"  1 1  Nothing  !  — that  is  to  say,  I  expect  nothing," 
said  Septimius.  "But  I  am  astray,  seeking  every 
where,  and  so  I  reject  no  hint,  no  promise,  no  faintest 
possibility  of  aid  that  I  may  find  anywhere.  I  j  udge 
this  man  to  be  a  quack,  but  I  judge  the  same  of  the 
most  learned  man  of  his  profession,  or  any  other  ;  and 
there  is  a  roughness  about  this  man,  that  may  indicate 
a  little  more  knowledge  than  if  he  were  smoother.  So, 
as  he  threw  himself  in  my  way,  I  take  him  in." 

"  A  grim,  ugly-looking  old  wretch,  as  ever  I  saw," 
muttered  Aunt  Keziah.  "Well,  he  shall  have  hi» 
dinner  ;  and  if  he  likes  to  talk  about  yarb-dishes,  I  'm 
with  him." 

So  Septimius  followed  the  doctor  into  his  study, 
where  he  found  him  with  the  sword  in  his  hand,  which 
he  had  taken  from  over  the  mantel-piece,  and  was 
holding  it  drawn,  examining  the  hilt  and  blade  with 
great  minuteness  ;  the  hilt  being  wrought  in  open 
work,  with  certain  heraldic  devices,  doubtless  belong 
ing  to  the  family  of  its  former  wearer. 

"  I  have  seen  this  weapon  before,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  It  may  well  be,"  said  Septimius.  "  It  was  onca 
worn  by  a  person  who  served  in  the  army  of  you* 
king." 

"  And  you  took  it  from  him  ?  "  said  the  doctor. 

"  If  I  did,  it  was  in  no  way  that  I  need  be  ashamed 
of,  or  afraid  to  tell,  though  I  choose  rather  not  to 
speak  of  it,"  answered  Septimius. 

"  Have  you,  then,  no  desire  nor  interest  to  know 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  89 

the  family,  the  personal  history,  the  prospects,  of  him 
who  once  wore  this  sword,  and  who  will  never  draw 
sword  again1?"  inquired  Doctor  Portsoaken.  "Poor 
Cyril  Norton  !  There  was  a  singular  story  attached 
to  that  young  man,  sir,  and  a  singular  mystery  he 
carried  about  with  him,  the  end  of  which,  perhaps,  is 
not  yet." 

Septimius  would  have  been,  indeed,  well  enough 
pleased  to  learn  the  mystery  which  he  himself  had 
seen  that  there  was  about  the  man  whom  he  slew ; 
but  he  was  afraid  that  some  question  might  be  thereby 
started  about  the  secret  document  that  he  had  kept 
possession  of ;  and  he  therefore  would  have  wished  to 
avoid  the  whole  subject. 

"  I  cannot  be  supposed  to  take  much  interest  in 
English  family  history.  It  is  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  at  least,  since  my  own  family  ceased  to  be 
English,"  he  answered.  "  I  care  more  for  the  present 
and  future  than  for  the  past." 

"It  is  all  one,"  said  the  doctor,  sitting  down,  taking 
out  a  pinch  of  tobacco,  and  refilling  his  pipe. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  follow  up  the  description  of 
the  visit  of  the  eccentric  doctor  through  the  day.  Suf 
fice  it  to  say  that  there  was  a  sort  of  charm,  or  rather 
fascination,  about  the  uncouth  old  fellow,  in  spite  of 
his  strange  ways ;  in  spite  of  his  constant  puffing  of 
tobacco ;  and  in  spite,  too,  of  a  constant  imbibing 
of  strong  liquor,  which  he  made  inquiries  for,  and  of 
which  the  best  that  could  be  produced  was  a  certain 
decoction,  infusion,  or  distillation,  pertaining  to  Aunt 
Keziah,  and  of  which  the  basis  was  rum,  be  it  said, 


90  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

done  up  with  certain  bitter  herbs  of  the  old  lady's  own 
gathering,  at  proper  times  of  the  moon,  and  which 
was  a  well-known  drink  to  all  who  were  favored  with 
Aunt  Keziah's  friendship ;  though  there  was  a  story 
that  it  was  the  very  drink  which  used  to  be  passed 
round  at  witch-meetings,  being  brewed  from  the  Dev 
il's  own  recipe.  And,  in  truth,  judging  from  the  taste 
(for  I  once  took  a  sip  of  a  draught  prepared  from  the 
same  ingredients,  and  in  the  same  way),  I  should 
think  this  hellish  origin  might  be  the  veritable  one. 

["  I  thought"  quoth  the  doctor,  "I  could  drink  any 
thing,  but  —  "  ] 

But  the  valiant  doctor  sipped,  and  sipped  again, 
and  said  with  great  blasphemy  that  it  was  the  real 
stuff,  and  only  needed  henbane  to  make  it  perfect. 
Then,  taking  from  his  pocket  a  good-sized  leathern- 
covered  flask,  with  a  silver  lip  fastened  on  the  muzzle, 
he  offered  it  to  Septimius,  who  declined,  and  to  Aunt 
Keziah,  who  preferred  her  own  decoction,  and  then 
drank  it  off  himself,  with  a  loud  smack  of  satisfaction, 
declaring  it  to  be  infernally  good  brandy. 

Well,  after  this  Septimius  and  he  talked ;  and  I 
know  not  how  it  was,  but  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
imagination  in  this  queer  man,  whether  a  bodily  or 
spiritual  influence  it  might  be  hard  to  say.  On  the 
other  hand,  Septimius  had  for  a  long  while  held  little 
intercourse  with  men ;  none  whatever  with  men  who 
could  comprehend  him ;  the  doctor,  too,  seemed  to 
bring  the  discourse  singularly  in  apposition  with  what 
his  host  was  continually  thinking  about,  for  he  con 
versed  on  occult  matters,  on  people  who  had  had  the 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  91 

art  of  living  long,  and  had  only  died  at  last  by  acci 
dent,  on  the  powers  and  qualities  of  common  herbs, 
which  he  believed  to  be  so  great,  that  all  around  our 
feet — growing  in  the  wild  forest,  afar  from  man,  or 
following  the  footsteps  of  man  wherever  he  fixes  his 
residence,  across  seas,  from  the  old  homesteads  whence 
he  migrated,  following  him  everywhere,  and  offering 
themselves  sedulously  and  continually  to  his  notice, 
while  he  only  plucks  them  away  from  the  compara 
tively  worthless  things  which  he  cultivates,  and  flings 
them  aside,  blaspheming  at  them  because  Providence 
has  sown  them  so  thickly  —  grow  what  we  call  weeds, 
only  because  all  the  generations,  from  the  beginning 
of  time  till  now,  have  failed  to  discover  their  wondrous 
virtues,  potent  for  the  curing  of  all  diseases,  potent  for 
procuring  length  of  days. 

"Everything  good,"  said  the  doctor,  drinking  an 
other  dram  of  brandy,  "  lies  right  at  our  feet,  and  all 
we  need  is  to  gather  it  up." 

"  That 's  true,"  quoth  Keziah,  taking  just  a  little 
sup  of  her  hellish  preparation;  "these  herbs  were  all 
gathered  within  a  hundred  yards  of  this  very  spot, 
though  it  took  a  wise  woman  to  find  out  their  vir 
tues." 

The  old  woman  went  off  about  her  household  duties, 
and  then  it  was  that  Septimius  submitted  to  the  doc. 
tor  the  list  of  herbs  which  he  had  picked  out  of  the 
old  document,  asking  him,  as  something  apposite  to 
the  subject  of  their  discourse,  whether  he  was  ac 
quainted  with  them,  for  most  of  them  had  very  queer 
names,  some  in  Latin,  some  in  English. 


92  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

The  bluff  doctor  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  looked 
over  the  slip  of  yellow  and  worn  paper  scrutinizingly, 
puffing  tobacco-smoke  upon  it  in  great  volumes,  as  if 
thereby  to  make  its  hidden  purport  come  out ;  he 
mumbled  to  himself,  he  took  another  sip  from  his 
flask ;  and  then,  putting  it  down  on  the  table,  ap 
peared  to  meditate. 

"  This  infernal  old  document,"  said  he,  at  length, 
"  is  one  that  I  have  never  seen  before,  yet  heard  of, 
nevertheless ;  for  it  was  my  folly  in  youth  (and  wheth 
er  I  am  any  wiser  now  is  more  than  I  take  upon  me 
to  say,  but  it  was  my  folly  then)  to  be  in  quest  of 
certain  kinds  of  secret  knowledge,  which  the  fathers 
of  science  thought  attainable.  Now,  in  several  quar 
ters,  amongst  people  with  whom  my  pursuits  brought 
me  in  contact,  I  heard  of  a  certain  recipe  which  had 
been  lost  for  a  generation  or  two,  but  which,  if  it  could 
be  recovered,  would  prove  to  have  the  true  life-giving 
potency  in  it.  It  is  said  that  the  ancestor  of  a  great 
old  family  in  England  was  in  possession  of  this  secret, 
being  a  man  of  science,  and  the  friend  of  Friar  Bacon, 
who  was  said  to  have  concocted  it  himself,  partly  from 
the  precepts  of  his  master,  partly  from  his  own  experi 
ments,  and  it  is  thought  he  might  have  been  living  to 
this  day,  if  he  had  not  unluckily  been  killed  in  the 
wars  of  the  Roses ;  for  you  know  no  recipe  for  long 
life  would  be  proof  against  an  old  English  arrow,  or  a 
leaden  bullet  from  one  of  our  own  firelocks." 

"  And  what  has  been  the  history  of  the  thing  after 
his  death  ? "  asked  Septimius. 

"It  was  supposed  to  be  preserved  in  the  family," 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  93 

said  the  doctor,  "  and  it  has  always  been  said,  that  the 
head  and  eldest  son  of  that  family  had  it  at  his  option 
to  live  forever,  if  he  could  only  make  up  his  mind  to 
it.  But  seemingly  there  were  difficulties  in  the  way. 
There  was  probably  a  certain  diet  and  regimen  to  be 
observed,  certain  strict  rules  of  life  to  be  kept,  a  cer 
tain  asceticism  to  be  imposed  on  the  person,  which  was 
not  quite  agreeable  to  young  men ;  and  after  the 
period  of  youth  was  passed,  the  human  frame  became 
incapable  of  being  regenerated  from  the  seeds  of  decay 
and  death,  which,  by  that  time,  had  become  strongly 
developed  in  it.  In  short,  while  young,  the  possessor 
of  the  secret  found  the  terms  of  immortal  life  too 
hard  to  be  accepted,  since  it  implied  the  giving  up  of 
most  of  the  things  that  made  life  desirable  in  his  view ; 
and  when  he  came  to  a  more  reasonable  mind,  it  was 
too  late.  And  so,  in  all  the  generations  since  Friar 
Bacon's  time,  the  Nortons  have  been  born,  and  en 
joyed  their  young  days  and  worried  through  their 
manhood,  and  tottered  through  their  old  age  (unless 
taken  off  sooner  by  sword,  arrow,  ball,  fever,  or  what 
not),  and  died  in  their  beds,  like  men  that  had  no 
such  option  \  and  so  this  old  yellow  paper  has  done 
not  the  least  good  to  any  mortal.  Neither  do  I  see 
how  it  can  do  any  good  to  you,  since  you  know  not 
the  rules,  moral  or  dietetic,  that  are  essential  to  its 
effect.  But  how  did  you  come  by  it  1 " 

"  It  matters  not  how,"  said  Septimius,  gloomily. 
"  Enough  that  I  am  its  rightful  possessor  and  inheri 
tor.  Can  you  read  these  old  characters  1 " 

"Most  of  them,"  said  the  doctor  ;  "but  let  me  tell 


94  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

you,  my  young  friend,  I  have  no  faith  whatever  in  this 
secret ;  and,  having  meddled  with  such  things  myself, 
I  ought  to  know.  The  old  physicians  and  chemists 
had  strange  ideas  of  the  virtues  of  plants,  drugs,  and 
minerals,  and  equally  strange  fancies  as  to  the  way  of 
getting  those  virtues  into  action.  They  would  throw 
a  hundred  different  potencies  into  a  caldron  together, 
and  put  them  on  the  fire,  and  expect  to  brew  a  poten 
cy  containing  all  their  potencies,  and  having  a  differ 
ent  virtue  of  its  own.  Whereas,  the  most  likely  result 
would  be  that  they  would  counteract  one  another,  and 
the  concoction  be  of  no  virtue  at  all ;  or  else  some 
more  powerful  ingredient  would  tincture  the  whole." 
He  read  the  paper  again,  and  continued  :  — 
"  I  see  nothing  else  so  remarkable  in  this  recipe,  as 
that  it  is  chiefly  made  up  of  some  of  the  commonest 
things  that  grow ;  plants  that  you  set  your  foot  upon 
at  your  very  threshold,  in  your  garden,  in  your  wood- 
walks,  wherever  you  go.  I  doubt  not  old  Aunt 
Keziah  knows  them,  and  very  likely  she  has  brewed 
them  up  in  that  hell-drink,  the  remembrance  of  which 
is  still  rankling  in  my  stomach.  I  thought  I  had 
swallowed  the  Devil  himself,  whom  the  old  woman 
had  been  boiling  down.  It  would  be  curious  enough 
if  the  hideous  decoction  was  the  same  as  old  Friar 
Bacon  and  his  acolyte  discovered  by  their  science  ! 
One  ingredient,  however,  one  of  those  plants,  I  scarce 
ly  think  the  old  lady  can  have  put  into  her  pot  of 
Devil's  elixir ;  for  it  is  a  rare  plant,  that  does  not 
grow  in  these  parts." 

"  And  what  is  that  1 "  asked  Septimius. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  95 

"  Sanguined  sanguinissima,"  said  the  doctor ;  "  it 
has  no  vulgar  name  ;  but  it  produces  a  very  beautiful 
flower,  which  I  have  never  seen,  though  some  seeds 
of  it  were  sent  me  by  a  learned  friend  in  Siberia. 
The  others,  divested  of  their  Latin  names,  are  as 
common  as  plantain,  pig-weed,  and  burdock ;  and  it 
stands  to  reason  that,  if  vegetable  Nature  has  any 
such  wonderfully  efficacious  medicine  in  store  for 
men,  and  means  them  to  use  it,  she  would  have 
strewn  it  everywhere  plentifully  within  their  reach." 

"  But,  after  all,  it  would  be  a  mockery  on  the  old 
dame's  part,"  said  the  young  man,  somewhat  bitterly, 
"  since  she  wxmld  thus  hold  the  desired  thing  seem 
ingly  within  our  reach ;  but  because  she  never  tells 
us  how  to  prepare  and  obtain  its  efficacy,  we  miss 
it  just  as  much  as  if  all  the  ingredients  were  hidden 
from  sight  and  knowledge  in  the  centre  of  the  earth. 
We  are  the  playthings  and  fools  of  Nature,  which  she 
amuses  herself  with  during  our  little  lifetime,  and 
then  breaks  for  mere  sport,  and  laughs  in  our  faces  as 
she  does  so." 

"  Take  care,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
his  great  coarse  laugh.  "I  rather  suspect  that  you 
have  already  got  beyond  the  age  when  the  great 
medicine  could  do  you  good ;  that  speech  indicates  a 
great  toughness  and  hardness  and  bitterness  about  the 
heart  that  does  not  accumulate  in  our  tender  years." 

Septimius  took  little  or  no  notice  of  the  raillery  of 
the  grim  old  doctor,  but  employed  the  rest  of  the 
time  in  getting  as  much  information  as  he  could  out 
of  his  guest ;  and  though  he  could  not  bring  himself 


96  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

to  show  him  the  precious  and  sacred  mamiscript,  yet 
he  questioned  him  as  closely  as  possible  without  be 
traying  his  secret,  as  to  the  modes  of  finding  out 
cryptic  writings.  The  doctor  was  not  without  the 
perception  that  his  dark-browed,  keen-eyed  acquaint 
ance  had  some  purpose  not  openly  avowed  in  all 
these  pertinacious,  distinct  questions  ;  he  discovered  a 
central  reference  in  them  all,  and  perhaps  knew  that 
Septimius  must  have  in  his  possession  some  writing  in 
hieroglyphics,  cipher,  or  other  secret  mode,  that  con 
veyed  instructions  how  to  operate  with  the  strange 
recipe  that  he  had  shown  him. 

"  You  had  better  trust  me  fully,  my  good  sir,"  said 
he.  "  Not  but  what  I  will  give  you  all  the  aid  I  can 
without  it;  for  you  have  done  me  a  greater  benefit 
than  you  are  aware  of,  beforehand.  No  —  you  will 
not  1  Well,  if  you  can  change  your  mind,  seek  me 
out  in  Boston,  where  I  have  seen  fit  to  settle  in  the 
practice  of  my  profession,  and  I  will  serve  you  accord 
ing  to  your  folly  ;  for  folly  it  is,  I  warn  you." 

Nothing  else  worthy  of  record  is  known  to  have 
passed  during  the  doctor's  visit ;  and  in  due  time  he 
disappeared,  as  it  were,  in  a  whiff  of  tobacco-smoke, 
leaving  an  odor  of  brandy  and  tobacco  behind  him, 
and  a  traditionary  memory  of  a  wizard  that  had  been 
there.  Septimius  went  to  work  with  what  items  of 
knowledge  he  had  gathered  from  him ;  but  the  inter 
view  had  at  least  made  him  aware  of  one  thing,  which 
was,  that  he  must  provide  himself  with,  all  possible 
quantity  of  scientific  knowledge  of  botany,  and  per 
haps  more  extensive  knowledge,  in  order  to  be  able 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  97 

to  concoct  the  recipe.  It  was  the  fruit  of  all  the 
scientific  attainment  of  the  age  that  produced  it  (so 
said  the  legend,  which  seemed  reasonable  enough),  a 
great  philosopher  had  wrought  his  learning  into  it ; 
and  this  had  been  attempered,  regulated,  improved, 
by  the  quick,  bright  intellect  of  his  scholar.  Perhaps, 
thought  Septimius,  another  deep  and  earnest  intelli 
gence  added  to  these  two  may  bring  the  precious 
recipe  to  still  greater  perfection.  At  least  it  shall  be 
tried.  So  thinking,  he  gathered  together  all  the 
books  that  he  could  find  relating  to  such  studies  ; 
he  spent  one  day,  moreover,  in  a  walk  to  Cambridge, 
where  he  searched  the  alcoves  of  the  college  library 
for  such  works  as  it  contained ;  and  borrowing  them 
from  the  war-disturbed  institution  of  learning,  he 
betook  himself  homewards,  and  applied  himself  to  the 
study  with  an  earnestness  of  zealous  application  that 
perhaps  has  been  seldom  equalled  in  a  study  of  so 
quiet  a  character.  A  month  or  two  of  study,  with 
practice  upon  such  plants  as  he  found  upon  his  hill 
top,  and  along  the  brook  and  in  other  neighboring 
localities,  sufficed  to  do  a  great  deal  for  him.  In 
this  pursuit  he  was  assisted  by  Sybil,  who  proved  to 
have  great  knowledge  in  some  botanical  departments, 
especially  among  flowers;  and  in  her  cold  and  quiet 
way,  she  met  him  on  this  subject  and  glided  by  his  side, 
as  she  had  done  so  long,  a  companion,  a  daily  observer 
and  observed  of  him,  mixing  herself  up  with  his  pur 
suits,  as  if  she  were  an  attendant  sprite  upon  him. 

But  this  pale  girl  was  not  the  only  associate  of  his 
studies,  the  only  instructress,  whom  Septimius  found. 
5  o 


98  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

The  observation  which  Doctor  Portsoaken  made  about 
the  fantastic  possibility  that  Aunt  Keziah  might  have 
inherited  the  same  receipt  from  her  Indian  ancestiy 
which  had  been  struck  out  by  the  science  of  Friar 
Bacon  and  his  pupil  had  not  failed  to  impress  Sep- 
timius,  and  to  remain  on  his  memory.  So,  not  long 
after  the  doctor's  departure,  the  young  man  took 
occasion  one  evening  to  say  to  his  aunt  that  he 
thought  his  stomach  was  a  little  out  of  order  with  too 
much  application,  and  that  perhaps  she  could  give  him 
some  herb-drink  or  other  that  would  be  good  for  him. 

"  That  I  can,  Seppy,  my  darling,"  said  the  old 
woman,  "  and  I  'm  glad  you  have  the  sense  to  ask 
for  it  at  last.  Here  it  is  in  this  bottle ;  and  though 
that  foolish,  blaspheming  doctor  turned  up  his  old 
brandy  nose  at  it,  I  '11  drink  with  him  any  day  and 
come  off  better  than  he." 

So  saying,  she  took  out  of  the  closet  her  brown  jug, 
stopped  with  a  cork  that  had  a  rag  twisted  round  it 
to  make  it  tighter,  filled  a  mug  half  full  of  the  con 
coction,  and  set  it  on  the  table  before  Septimius. 

"  There,  child,  smell  of  that ;  the  smell  merely  will 
do  you  good ;  but  drink  it  down,  and  you  '11  live  the 
longer  for  it." 

"  Indeed,  Aunt  Keziah,  is  that  so  1 "  asked  Sep 
timius,  a  little  startled  by  a  recommendation  which 
in  some  measure  tallied  with  what  he  wanted  in  a 
medicine.  "  That  's  a  good  quality." 

He  looked  into  the  mug,  and  saw  a  turbid,  yellow 
concoction,  not  at  all  attractive  to  the  eye ;  he  smelt 
of  it,  and  was  partly  of  opinion  that  Aunt  Keziah  had 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  99 

mixed  a  certain  imfragrant  vegetable,  called  skunk- 
cabbage,  with  the  other  ingredients  of  her  witch- 
drink.  He  tasted  it;  not  a  mere  sip,  but  a  good, 
genuine  gulp,  being  determined  to  have  real  proof 
of  what  the  stuff  was  in  all  respects.  The  draught 
seemed  at  first  to  burn  in  his  mouth,  unaccustomed 
to  any  drink  but  water,  and  to  go  scorching  all  the 
way  down  into  his  stomach,  making  him  sensible  of 
the  depth  of  his  inwards  by  a  track  of  fire,  far,  far 
down ;  and  then,  worse  than  the  fire,  came  a  taste  of 
hideous  bitterness  and  nauseousriess,  which  he  had 
not  previously  conceived  to  exist,  and  which  threat 
ened  to  stir  up  his  bowels  into  utter  revolt;  but 
knowing  Aunt  Keziah's  touchiness  with  regard  to  this 
concoction,  and  how  sacred  she  held  it,  he  made  an 
effort  of  real  heroism,  squelched  down  his  agony,  and 
kept  his  face  quiet,  with  the  exception  of  one  strong 
convulsion,  which  he  allowed  to  twist  across  it  for  the 
sake  of  saving  his  life. 

"  It  tastes  as  if  it  might  have  great  potency  in  it, 
Aunt  Keziah,"  said  this  unfortunate  young  man  ; 
"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  it  is  made  of,  and 
how  you  brew  it ;  for  I  have  observed  you  are  very 
strict  and  secret  about  it." 

"  Aha !  you  have  seen  that,  have  you  1 "  said  Aunt 
Keziah,  taking  a  sip  of  her  beloved  liquid,  and  grin 
ning  at  him  with  a  face  and  eyes  as  yellow  as  that  she 
was  drinking.  In  fact,  the  idea  struck  him,  that  in 
temper,  and  all  appreciable  qualities,  Aunt  Keziah 
was  a  good  deal  like  this  drink  of  hers,  having  prob 
ably  become  saturated  by  them  while  she  drank  of  it. 


100  SEPTIMUS  FELTON. 

And  then,  having  drunk,  she  gloated  over  it,  and 
tasted,  and  smelt  of  the  cup  of  this  hellish  wine,  as  a 
wine-bibber  does  of  that  which  is  most  fragrant  and 
delicate.  "And  you  want  to  know  how  I  make  it? 
But  first,  child,  tell  me  honestly,  do  you  love  this 
drink  of  mine  7  Otherwise,  here,  and  at  once,  we  stop 
talking  about  it." 

"  I  love  it  for  its  virtues,"  said  Septimius,  tem 
porizing  with  his  conscience,  "  and  would  prefer  it  on 
that  account  to  the  rarest  wines." 

"So  far  good,"  said  Aunt  Keziah,  who  could  not 
well  conceive  that  her  liquor  should  be  otherwise 
than  delicious  to  the  palate.  "It  is  the  most  vir 
tuous  liquor  that  ever  was;  and  therefore  one  need 
not  fear  drinking  too  much  of  it.  And  you  want  to 
know  what  it  is  made  ofl  Well;  I  have  often 
thought  of  telling  you,  Seppy,  my  boy,  when  you 
should  come  to  be  old  enough ;  for  I  have  no  other 
inheritance  to  leave  you,  and  you  are  all  of  my  blood, 
unless  I  should  happen  to  have  some  far-off  uncle 
among  the  Cape  Indians.  But  first,  you  must  know 
how  this  good  drink,  and  the  faculty  of  making  it, 
came  down  to  me  from  the  chiefs,  and  sachems,  and 
Peow-wows,  that  were  your  ancestors  and  mine,  Sep 
timius,  and  from  the  old  wizard  who  was  my  great 
grandfather  and  yours,  and  who,  they  say,  added  the 
fire-water  to  the  other  ingredients,  and  so  gave  it  the 
only  one  thing  that  it  wanted  to  make  it  perfect." 

And  so  Aunt  Keziah,  who  had  now  put  herself 
into  a  most  comfortable  and  jolly  state  by  sipping 
again,  and  after  pressing  Septimius  to  mind  his 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  101 

draught  (who  declined,  on  the  plea  that  one  dram  at 
a  time  was  enough  for  a  new  beginner,  its  virtues 
being  so  strong,  as  well  as  admirable),  the  old  woman 
told  him  a  legend  strangely  wild  and  uncouth,  and 
mixed  up  of  savage  and  civilized  life,  and  of  the  super 
stitions  of  both,  but  which  yet  had  a  certain  analogy, 
that  impressed  Septimius  much,  to  the  story  that  the 
doctor  had  told  him. 

She  said  that,  many  ages  ago,  there  had  been  a 
wild  sachem  in  the  forest,  a  king  among  the  Indians, 
and  from  whom,  the  old  lady  said,  with  a  look  of 
pride,  she  and  Septimius  were  lineally  descended, 
and  were  probably  the  very  last  who  inherited  one 
drop  of  that  royal,  wise,  and  warlike  blood.  The 
sachem  had  lived  very  long,  longer  than  anybody 
knew,  for  the  Indians  kept  no  record,  and  could  only 
talk  of  a  great  number  of  moons ;  and  they  said  he 
was  as  old,  or  older,  than  the  oldest  trees ;  as  old  as 
the  hills  almost,  and  could  remember  back  to  the 
days  of  godlike  men,  who  had  arts  then  forgotten. 
He  was  a  wise  and  good  man,  and  could  foretell  as 
far  into  the  future  as  he  could  remember  into  the 
past;  and  he  continued  to  live  on,  till  his  people 
were  afraid  that  he  would  live  forever,  and  so  disturb 
the  whole  order  of  nature ;  and  they  thought  it  time 
that  so  good  a  man,  and  so  great  a  warrior  and 
wizard,  should  be  gone  to  the  happy  hunting-grounds, 
and  that  so  wise  a  counsellor  should  go  and  tell  his 
experience  of  life  to  the  Great  Father,  and  give  him 
an  account  of  matters  here,  and  perhaps  lead  him  to 
make  some  changes  in  the  conduct  of  the  lower 


102  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

world.  And  so,  all  these  things  duly  considered, 
they  very  reverently  assassinated  the  great  never- 
dying  sachem ;  for  though  safe  against  disease,  and 
undecayable  by  age,  he  was  capable  of  being  killed 
by  violence,  though  the  hardness  of  his  skull  broke  to 
fragments  the  stone  tomahawk  with  which  they  at 
first  tried  to  kill  him. 

So  a  deputation  of  the  best  and  bravest  of  the 
tribe  went  to  the  great  sachem,  and  told  him  their 
thought,  and  reverently  desired  his  consent  to  be 
put  out  of  the  world ;  and  the  undying  one  agreed 
with  them  that  it  was  better  for  his  own  comfort 
that  he  should  die,  and  that  he  had  long  been  weary 
of  the  world,  having  learned  all  that  it  could  teach 
him,  and  having,  chiefly,  learned  to  despair  of  ever 
making  the  red  race  much  better  than  they  now 
were.  So  he  cheerfully  consented,  and  told  them  to 
kill  him  if  they  could ;  and  first  they  tried  the  stone 
hatchet,  which  was  broken  against  his  skull ;  and 
then  they  shot  arrows  at  him,  which  could  not  pierce 
the  toughness  of  his  skin ;  and  finally  they  plastered 
up  his  nose  and  mouth  (which  kept  uttering  wisdom 
to  the  last)  with  clay  and  set  him  to  bake  in  the  sun ; 
so  at  last  his  life  burnt  out  of  his  breast,  tearing  his 
body  to  pieces,  and  he  died. 

[Make  this  legend  grotesque,  and  express  the  weariness 
of  the  tribe  at  the  intolerable  control  the  undying  one  had 
of  them  ;  his  always  bringing  up  precepts  from  his  own 
experience,  never  consenting  to  anything  new,  and  so  im 
peding  progress  ;  his  habits  hardening  into  him,  his  as 
cribing  to  himself  all  wisdom,  and  depriving  everybody  of 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  103 

his  right  to  successive  command;  his  endless  talk,  and 
dwelling  on  the  past,  so  that  the  world  could  not  bear 
him.  Describe  his  ascetic  and  severe  habits,  his  rigid 
calmness,  <£c.] 

But  before  the  great  sagamore  died  he  imparted 
to  a  chosen  one  of  his  tribe,  the  next  wisest  to  him 
self,  the  secret  of  a  potent  and  delicious  drink,  the 
constant  imbibing  of  which,  together  with  his  absti 
nence  from  luxury  and  passion,  had  kept  him  alive 
so  long,  and  would  doubtless  have  compelled  him  to 
live  forever.  This  drink  was  compounded  of  many 
ingredients,  all  of  which  were  remembered  and  handed 
down  in  tradition,  save  one,  which,  either  because  it 
was  nowhere  to  be  found,  or  for  some  other  reason,  was 
forgotten ;  so  that  the  drink  ceased  to  give  immortal 
life  as  before.  They  say  it  was  a  beautiful  purple 
flower.  \JPerhaps  the  Devil  taught  him  the  drink,  or  else 
the  Great  Spirit,  —  doubtful  which.~\  But  it  still  was  a 
most  excellent  drink,  and  conducive  to  health,  and 
the  cure  of  all  diseases ;  and  the  Indians  had  it  at  the 
time  of  the  settlement  by  the  English ;  and  at  one  of 
those  wizard  meetings  in  the  forest,  where  the  Black 
Man  used  to  meet  his  red  children  and  his  white  ones, 
and  be  jolly  with  them,  a  great  Indian  wizard  taught 
the  secret  to  Septimius's  great-grandfather,  who  was 
a  wizard,  and  died  for  it;  and  he,  in  return,  taught 
the  Indians  to  mix  it  with  rum,  thinking  that  this 
might  be  the  very  ingredient  that  was  missing,  and 
that  by  adding  it  he  might  give  endless  life  to  himself 
and  all  his  Indian  friends,  among  whom  he  had  taken 
a  wife. 


104  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"But  your  great-grandfather,  you  know,  had  not 
a  fair  chance  to  test  its  virtues,  having  been  hanged 
for  a  wizard ;  and  as  for  the  Indians,  they  probably 
mixed  too  much  fire-water  with  their  liquid,  so  that 
it  burnt  them  up,  and  they  all  died ;  and  my  mother, 
and  her  mother,  —  who  taught  the  drink  to  me,  —  and 
her  mother  afore  her,  thought  it  a  sin  to  try  to  live 
longer  than  the  Lord  pleased,  so  they  let  themselves 
die.  And  though  the  drink  is  good,  Septimius,  and 
toothsome,  as  you  see,  yet  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I 
were  getting  old,  like  other  people,  and  may  die  in 
the  course  of  the  next  half-century;  so  perhaps  the 
rum  was  not  just  the  thing  that  was  wanting  to  make 
up  the  recipe.  But  it  is  very  good !  Take  a  drop 
more  of  it,  dear." 

"  Not  at  present,  I  thank  you,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said 
Septimius,  gravely ;  "  but  will  you  tell  me  what  the 
ingredients  are,  and  how  you  make  it1?" 

"  Yes,  I  will,  my  boy,  and  you  shall  write  them 
down,"  said  the  old  woman ;  "  for  it 's  a  good  drink, 
and  none  the  worse,  it  may  be,  for  not  making  you 
live  forever.  I  sometimes  think  I  had  as  lief  go  to 
heaven  as  keep  on  living  here." 

Accordingly,  making  Septimius  take  pen  and  ink, 
she  proceeded  to  tell  him  a  list  of  plants  and  herbs, 
and  forest  productions,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find 
that  it  agreed  most  wonderfully  with  the  recipe  con 
tained  in  the  old  manuscript,  as  he  had  puzzled  it 
out,  and  as  it  had  been  explained  by  the  doctor. 
There  were  a  few  variations,  it  is  true  ;  but  even  here 
there  was  a  close  analogy,  plants  indigenous  to  Amer- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  105 

ica  being  substituted  for  cognate  productions,  the 
growth  of  Europe.  Then  there  was  another  difference 
in  the  mode  of  preparation,  Aunt  Keziah's  nostrum 
being  a  concoction,  whereas  the  old  manuscript  gave  a 
process  of  distillation.  This  similarity  had  a  strong 
effect  on  Septimius's  imagination.  Here  was,  in  ono 
case,  a  drink  suggested,  as  might  be  supposed,  to  a 
primitive  people  by  something  similar  to  that  instinct 
by  which  the  brute  creation  recognizes  the  medica 
ments  suited  to  its  needs,  so  that  they  mixed  up  fra 
grant  herbs  for  reasons  wiser  than  they  knew,  and 
made  them  into  a  salutary  potion ;  and  here,  again, 
was  a  drink  contrived  by  the  utmost  skill  of  a  great 
civilized  philosopher,  searching  the  whole  field  of 
science  for  his  purpose  ;  and  these  two  drinks  proved, 
in  all  essential  particulars,  to  be  identically  the 
same. 

"  0,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  he,  with  a  longing  earnest 
ness,  "are  you  sure  that  you  cannot  remember  that 
one  ingredient  1 " 

"  No,  Septimius,  I  cannot  possibly  do  it,"  said  she. 
"I  have  tried  many  things,  skunk-cabbage,  wormwood, 
and  a  thousand  things ;  for  it  is  truly  a  pity  that  the 
chief  benefit  of  the  thing  should  be  lost  for  so  little. 
But  the  only  effect  was,  to  spoil  the  good  taste  of  the 
stuff,  and,  two  or  three  times,  to  poison  myself,  so 
that  I  broke  out  all  over  blotches,  and  once  lost  the 
use  of  my  left  arm,  and  got  a  dizziness  in  the  head, 
and  a  rheumatic  twist  in  my  knee,  a  hardness  of  hear 
ing,  and  a  dimness  of  sight,  and  the  trembles ;  all  of 
which  I  certainly  believe  to  have  been  co,used  by  my 
5* 


106  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

putting  something  else  into  this  blessed  drink  besides 
the  good  New  England  rum.  Stick  to  that,  Seppy, 
my  dear." 

So  saying,  Aunt  Keziah  took  yet  another  sip  of  the 
beloved  liquid,  after  vainly  pressing  Septimius  to  do 
the  like ;  and  then  lighting  her  old  clay  pipe,  she  sat 
down  in  the  chimney-corner,  meditating,  dreaming, 
muttering  pious  prayers  and  ejaculations,  and  some 
times  looking  up  the  wide  flue  of  the  chimney,  with 
thoughts,  perhaps,  how  delightful  it  must  have  been 
to  fly  up  there,  in  old  times,  on  excursions  by  midnight 
into  the  forest,  where  was  the  Black  Man,  and  the 
Puritan  deacons  and  ladies,  and  those  wild  Indian  an 
cestors  of  hers ;  and  where  the  wildness  of  the  forest 
was  so  grim  and  delightful,  and  so  unlike  the  com- 
monplaceness  in  which  she  spent  her  life.  For  thus 
did  the  savage  strain  of  the  woman,  mixed  up  as 
it  was  with  the  other  weird  and  religious  parts  of 
her  composition,  sometimes  snatch  her  back  into  bar 
barian  life  and  its  instincts ;  and  in  Septimius,  though 
further  diluted,  and  modified  likewise  by  higher  culti 
vation,  there  was  the  same  tendency. 

Septimius  escaped  from  the  old  woman,  and  was 
glad  to  breathe  the  free  air  again ;  so  much  had  he 
been  wrought  upon  by  her  wild  legends  and  wild 
character,  the  more  powerful  by  its  analogy  with  his 
own  ;  and  perhaps,  too,  his  brain  had  been  a  little 
bewildered  by  the  draught  of  her  diabolical  concoc 
tion  which  she  had  compelled  him  to  take.  At  any 
rate,  he  was  glad  to  escape  to  his  hill-top,  the  free 
air  of  which  had  doubtless  contributed  to  keep  him 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  107 

in  health  through  so  long  a  course  of  morbid  thought 
and  estranged  study  as  he  had  addicted  himself  to. 

Here,  as  it  happened,  he  found  both  Rose  Garneld 
and  Sybil  Dacy,  whom  the  pleasant  summer  evening 
had  brought  out.  They  had  formed  a  friendship,  or 
at  least  society ;  and  there  could  not  well  be  a  pair 
more  unlike,  —  the  one  so  natural,  so  healthy,  so  fit  to 
live  in  the  world ;  the  other  such  a  morbid,  pale  thing. 
So  there  they  were,  walking  arm  in  arm,  with  one  arm 
round  each  other's  waist,  as  girls  love  to  do.  They 
greeted  the  young  man  in  their  several  ways,  and  be 
gan  to  walk  to  and  fro  together,  looking  at  the  sunset 
as  it  came  on,  and  talking  of  things  on  earth  and  in 
the  clouds. 

"  When  has  Robert  Hagburn  been  heard  from  1 " 
asked  Septimius,  who,  involved  in  his  own  pursuits, 
was  altogether  behindhand  in  the  matters  of  the  war, 
—  shame  to  him  for  it ! 

"  There  came  news,  two  days  past,"  said  Rose, 
blushing.  "  He  is  on  his  way  home  with  the  remnant 
of  General  Arnold's  command,  and  will  be  here  soon." 

"  He  is  a  brave  fellow,  Robert,"  said  Septimius, 
carelessly,  "and  I  know  not,  since  life  is  so  short, 
that  anything  better  can  be  done  with  it  than  to  risk 
it  as  he  does." 

"  I  truly  think  not,"  said  Rose  Garfield.  composedly. 

"What  a  blessing  it  is  to  mortals,"  said  Sybil 
Dacy,  "  what  a  kindness  of  Providence,  that  life  is 
made  so  uncertain ;  that  death  is  thrown  in  among 
the  possibilities  of  our  being ;  that  these  awful  mys 
teries  are  thrown  around  us,  into  which  we  may 


108  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

vanish !  For,  without  it,  how  would  it  be  possible 
to  be  heroic,  how  should  we  plod  along  in  common 
places  forever,  never  dreaming  high  things,  never 
risking  anything  1  For  my  part,  I  think  man  is  more 
favored  than  the  angels,  and  made  capable  of  higher 
heroism,  greater  virtue,  and  of  a  more  excellent  spirit 
than  they,  because  we  have  such  a  mystery  of  grief 
and  terror  around  us ;  whereas  they,  being  in  a  cer 
tainty  of  God's  light,  seeing  his  goodness  and  his  pur 
poses  more  perfectly  than  we,  cannot  be  so  brave  as 
often  poor  weak  man,  and  weaker  woman,  has  the 
opportunity  to  be,  and  sometimes  makes  use  of  it. 
God  gave  the  whole  world  to  man,  and  if  he  is  left 
alone  with  it,  it  will  make  a  clod  of  him  at  last ;  but, 
to  remedy  that,  God  gave  man  a  grave,  and  it  redeems 
all,  while  it  seems  to  destroy  all,  and  makes  an  immor 
tal  spirit  of  him  in  the  end." 

"  Dear  Sybil,  you  are  inspired,"  said  Rose,  gazing  in 
her  face. 

"  I  think  you  ascribe  a  great  deal  too  much  potency 
to  the  grave,"  said  Septimius,  pausing  involuntarily 
alone  by  the  little  hillock,  whose  contents  he  knew  so 
well.  "  The  grave  seems  to  me  a  vile  pitfall,  put  right 
in  our  pathway,  and  catching  most  of  us,  —  all  of  us,  — 
causing  us  to  tumble  in  at  the  most  inconvenient  op 
portunities,  so  that  all  human  life  is  a  jest  and  a  farce, 
just  for  the  sake  of  this  inopportune  death ;  for  I  ob 
serve  it  never  waits  for  us  to  accomplish  anything  : 
we  may  have  the  salvation  of  a  country  in  hand,  but 
we  are  none  the  less  likely  to  die  for  that.  So  that, 
being  a  believer,  on  the  whole,  in  the  wisdom  and 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  109 

graciousuess  of  Providence,  I  am  convinced  that  dying 
is  a  mistake,  and  that  by  and  by  we  shall  overcome  it. 
I  say  there  is  no  use  in  the  grave." 

"  I  still  adhere  to  what  I  said,"  answered  Sybil 
Dacy ;  "  and  besides,  there  is  another  use  of  a  grave 
which  I  have  often  observed  in  old  English  grave 
yards,  where  the  moss  grows  green,  and  embosses 
the  letters  of  the  gravestones;  and  also  graves  are 
very  good  for  flower-beds." 

Nobody  ever  could  tell  when  the  strange  girl  was 
going  to  say  what  was  laughable,  —  when  what  was 
melancholy ;  and  neither  of  Sybil's  auditors  knew 
quite  what  to  make  of  this  speech.  Neither  could 
Septimius  fail  to  be  a  little  startled  by  seeing  her, 
as  she  spoke  of  the  grave  as  a  flower-bed,  stoop  down 
to  the  little  hillock  to  examine  the  flowers,  which, 
indeed,  seemed  to  prove  her  words  by  growing  there 
in  strange  abundance,  and  of  many  sorts ;  so  that, 
if  they  could  all  have  bloomed  at  once,  the  spot 
would  have  looked  like  a  bouquet  by  itself,  or  as  if 
the  earth  were  richest  in  beauty  there,  or  as  if  seeds 
had  been  lavished  by  some  florist.  Septimius  could 
not  account  for  it,  for  though  the  hillside  did  pro 
duce  certain  flowers,  —  the  aster,  the  golden-rod,  the 
violet,  and  other  such  simple  and  common  things,  — • 
yet  this  seemed  as  if  a  carpet  of  bright  colors  had 
been  thrown  down  there,  and  covered  the  spot. 

"  This  is  very  strange,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sybil  Dacy,  "  there  is  some  strange 
richness  in  this  little  spot  of  soil." 

"  Where  could  the  seeds  have  come  from  1  —  that 


110  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

is  the  greatest  wonder,"  said  Rose.  "  You  might  al 
most  teach  me  botany,  methinks,  on  this  one  spot." 

"Do  you  know  this  plant?"  asked  Sybil  of  Sep- 
timius,  pointing  to  one  not  yet  in  flower,  but  of 
singular  leaf,  that  was  thrusting  itself  up  out  of  the 
ground,  on  the  very  centre  of  the  grave,  over  where 
the  breast  of  the  sleeper  below  might  seem  to  be. 
"I  think  there  is  no  other  here  like  it." 

Septimius  stooped  down  to  examine  it,  and  was 
convinced  that  it  was  unlike  anything  he  had  seen 
of  the  flower  kind ;  a  leaf  of  a  dark  green,  with 
purple  veins  traversing  it,  it  had  a  sort  of  question 
able  aspect,  as  some  plants  have,  so  that  you  wrould 
think  it  very  likely  to  be  poison,  and  would  not  like 
to  touch  or  smell  very  intimately,  without  first  in 
quiring  who  would  be  its  guarantee  that  it  should 
do  no  mischief.  That  it  had  some  richness  or  other, 
either  baneful  or  beneficial,  you  could  not  doubt. 

"  I  think  it  poisonous,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  shud 
dering,  for  she  was  a  person  so  natural  she  hated 
poisonous  things,  or  anything  speckled  especially,  and 
did  not,  indeed,  love  strangeness.  "Yet  I  should 
not  wonder  if  it  bore  a  beautiful  flower  by  and  by. 
Nevertheless,  if  I  were  to  do  just  as  I  feel  inclined, 
I  should  root  it  up  and  fling  it  away." 

"  Shall  she  do  so  1 "  said  Sybil  to  Septimius. 

"  Not  for  the  world,"  said  he,  hastily.  "  Above  all 
things,  I  desire  to  see  what  will  come  of  this  plant." 

"Be  it  as  you  please,"  said  Sybil.  "Meanwhile, 
if  you  like  to  sit  down  here  and  listen  to  me,  I  will 
tell  you  a  story  that  happens  to  come  into  my  mind 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  Ill 

just  now,  —  I  cannot  tell  why.  It  is  a  legend  of  an 
old  hall  that  I  know  well,  and  have  known  from  my 
childhood,  in  one  of  the  northern  counties  of  Eng 
land,  where  I  was  born.  Would  you  like  to  hear  it, 
Rose?" 

"  Yes,  of  all  things,"  said  she.  "  I  like  all  stories 
of  hall  and  cottage  in  the  old  country,  though  now 
we  must  not  call  it  our  country  any  more." 

Sybil  looked  at  Septimius,  as  if  to  inquire  whether 
he,  too,  chose  to  listen  to  her  story,  and  he  made 
answer :  — 

"Yes,  I  shall  like  to  hear  the  legend,  if  it  is  a 
genuine  one  that  has  been  adopted  into  the  popular 
belief,  and  came  down  in  chimney-corners  with  the 
smoke  and  soot  that  gathers  there ;  and  incrusted 
over  with  humanity,  by  passing  from  one  homely 
mind  to  another.  Then,  such  stories  get  to  be  true, 
in  a  certain  sense,  and  indeed  in  that  sense  may  be 
called  true  throughout,  for  the  very  nucleus,  the  fic 
tion  in  them,  seems  to  have  come  out  of  the  heart 
of  man  in  a  way  that  cannot  be  imitated  of  malice 
aforethought.  Nobody  can  make  a  tradition  ;  it  takes 
a  century  to  make  it." 

"  I  know  not  whether  this  legend  has  the  character 
you  mean,"  said  Sybil,  "but  it  has  lived  much  more 
than  a  century ;  and  here  it  is. 

"  On  the  threshold  of  one   of  the   doors  of • 

Hall  there  is  a  bloody  footstep  impressed  into  the 
doorstep,  and  ruddy  as  if  the  bloody  foot  had  just 
trodden  there ;  and  it  is  averred  that,  on  a  certain 


112  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

night  of  the  year,  and  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  night, 
if  you  go  and  look  at  that  doorstep  you  will  see  the 
mark  wet  with  fresh  blood.  Some  have  pretended 
to  say  that  this  appearance  of  blood  was  but  dew; 
but  can  dew  redden  a  cambric  handkerchief]  Will 
it  crimson  the  finger-tips  when  you  touch  it  1  And 
that  is  what  the  bloody  footstep  will  surely  do  when 
the  appointed  night  and  hour  come  round,  this  very 
year,  just  as  it  would  three  hundred  years  ago. 

"  Well ;  but  how  did  it  come  there  ]  I  know  not 
precisely  in  what  age  it  was,  but  long  ago,  when 
light  was  beginning  to  shine  into  what  was  called  the 

dark  ages,  there  was  a  lord  of Hall  who  applied 

himself  deeply  to  knowledge  and  science,  under  the 
guidance  of  the  wisest  man  of  that  age,  —  a  man 
so  wise  that  he  was  thought  to  be  a  wizard;  and, 
indeed,  he  may  have  been  one,  if  to  be  a  wizard 
consists  in  having  command  over  secret  powers  of 
nature,  that  other  men  do  not  even  suspect  the 
existence  of,  and  the  control  of  which  enables  one  to 
do  feats  that  seem  as  wonderful  as  raising  the  dead. 
It  is  needless  to  tell  you  all  the  strange  stories  that 
have  survived  to  this  day  about  the  old  Hall;  and 
how  it  is  believed  that  the  master  of  it,  owing  to 
his  ancient  science,  has  still  a  sort  of  residence  there, 
and  control  of  the  place ;  and  how,  in  one  of  the 
chambers,  there  is  still  his  antique  table,  and  his 
chair,  and  some  rude  old  instruments  and  machinery, 
and  a  book,  and  everything  in  readiness,  just  as  if 
he  might  still  come  back  to  finish  some  experiment. 
What  it  is  important  to  say  is,  that  one  of  the  chief 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  113 

things  to  which  the  old  lord  applied  himself  was  to 
discover  the  means  of  prolonging  his  own  life,  so 
that  its  duration  should  be  indefinite,  if  not  infinite ; 
and  such  was  his  science,  that  he  was  believed  to 
have  attained  this  magnificent  and  awful  purpose. 

"  So,  as  you  may  suppose,  the  man  of  science  had 
great  joy  in  having  done  this  thing,  both  for  the 
pride  of  it,  and  because  it  was  so  delightful  a  thing 
to  have  before  him  the  prospect  of  endless  time, 
which  he  might  spend  in  adding  more  and  more  to 
his  science,  and  so  doing  good  to  the  world ;  for  the 
chief  obstruction  to  the  improvement  of  the  world 
and  the  growth  of  knowledge  is,  that  mankind  can 
not  go  straightforward  in  it,  but  continually  there 
have  to  be  new  beginnings,  and  it  takes  every  new 
man  half  his  life,  if  not  the  whole  of  it,  to  come 
up  to  the  point  where  his  predecessor  left  off.  And 
so  this  noble  man  —  this  man  of  a  noble  purpose  — 
spent  many  years  in  finding  out  this  mighty  secret ; 
and  at  last,  it  is  said,  he  succeeded.  But  on  what 
terms  ] 

"Well,  it  is  said  that  the  terms  were  dreadful 
and  horrible;  insomuch  that  the  wise  man  hesitated 
whether  it  were  lawful  and  desirable  to  take  advan 
tage  of  them,  great  as  was  the  object  in  view. 

"You  see,  the  object  of  the  lord  of Hall  was 

to  take  a  life  from  the  course  of  Nature,  and  Nature 
did  not  choose  to  be  defrauded ;  so  that,  great  as  was 
the  power  of  this  scientific  man  over  her,  she  would 
not  consent  that  he  should  escape  the  necessity  of 
dying  at  his  proper  time,  except  upon  condition  of 


114  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

sacrificing  some  other  life  for  his;  and  this  was  to 
be  done  once  for  every  thirty  years  that  he  chose  to 
live,  thirty  years  being  the  account  of  a  generation 
of  man ;  and  if  in  any  way,  in  that  time,  this  lord 
could  be  the  death  of  a  human  being,  that  satisfied 
the  requisition,  and  he  might  live  on.  There  is  a 
form  of  the  legend  which  says,  that  one  of  the  in 
gredients  of  the  drink  which  the  nobleman  brewed 
by  his  science  was  the  heart's  blood  of  a  pure  young 
boy  or  girl.  But  this  I  reject,  as  too  coarse  an  idea ; 
and,  indeed,  I  think  it  may  be  taken  to  mean  sym 
bolically,  that  the  person  who  desires  to  engross  to 
himself  more  than  his  share  of  human  life  must  do 
it  by  sacrificing  to  his  selfishness  some  dearest  interest 
of  another  person,  who  has  a  good  right  to  life,  and 
may  be  as  useful  in  it  as  he. 

"  Now,  this  lord  was  a  just  man  by  nature,  and  if 
he  had  gone  astray,  it  was  greatly  by  reason  of  his 
earnest  wish  to  do  something  for  the  poor,  wicked, 
struggling,  bloody,  uncomfortable  race  of  man,  to 
which  he  belonged.  He  bethought  himself  whether 
he  would  have  a  right  to  take  the  life  of  one  of  those 
creatures,  without  their  own  consent,  in  order  to 
prolong  his  own ;  and  after  much  arguing  to  and 
fro,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  should  not 
have  the  right,  unless  it  were  a  life  over  which  he 
had  control,  and  which  was  the  next  to  his  own. 
He  looked  round  him ;  he  was  a  lonely  and  ab 
stracted  man,  secluded  by  his  studies  from  human 
affections,  and  there  was  but  one  human  being  whom 
he  cared  for ;  —  that  was  a  beautiful  kinswoman,  an 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  115 

orphan,  whom  his  father  had  brought  up,  and,  dying, 
left  her  to  his  care.  There  was  great  kindness  and 
affection  —  as  great  as  the  abstracted  nature  of  his 
pursuits  would  allow  —  on  the  part  of  this  lord 
towards  the  beautiful  young  girl;  but  not  what  is 
called  love,  —  at  least,  he  never  acknowledged  it  to 
himself.  But,  looking  into  his  heart,  he  saw  that 
she,  if  any  one,  was  to  be  the  person  whom  the 
sacrifice  demanded,  and  that  he  might  kill  twenty 
others  without  effect,  but  if  he  took  the  life  of  this 
one,  it  would  make  the  charm  strong  and  good. 

"My  friends,  I  have  meditated  many  a  time  on 
this  ugly  feature  of  my  legend,  and  am  unwilling  to 
take  it  in  the  literal  sense ;  so  I  conceive  its  spirit 
ual  meaning  (for  everything,  you  know,  has  its 
spiritual  meaning,  which  to  the  literal  meaning  is 
what  the  soul  is  to  the  body),  —  its  spiritual  meaning 
was,  that  to  the  deep  pursuit  of  science  we  must 
sacrifice  great  part  of  the  joy  of  life;  that  nobody 
can  be  great,  and  do  great  things,  without  giving 
up  to  death,  so  far  as  he  regards  his  enjoyment  of  it, 
much  that  he  would  gladly  enjoy ;  and  in  that  sense 
I  choose  to  take  it.  But  the  earthly  old  legend  will 
have  it,  that  this  mad,  high-minded,  heroic,  murder 
ous  lord  did  insist  upon  it  with  himself  that  he  must 
murder  this  poor,  loving,  and  beloved  child. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  delay  upon  this  horrible  matter, 
and  to  tell  you  how  he  argued  it  with  himself;  and 
how,  the  more  and  more  he  argued  it,  the  more 
reasonable  it  seemed,  the  more  absolutely  necessary, 
the  more  a  duty  that  the  terrible  sacrifice  should  be 


116  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

made.  Here  was  this  great  good  to  be  done  to 
mankind,  and  all  that  stood  in  the  way  of  it  was 
one  little  delicate  life,  so  frail  that  it  was  likely 
enough  to  be  blown  out,  any  day,  by  the  mere  rude 
blast  that  the  rush  of  life  creates,  as  it  streams 
along,  or  by  any  slightest  accident;  so  good  and 
pure,  too,  that  she  was  quite  unfit  for  this  world, 
and  not  capable  of  any  happiness  in  it ;  and  all  that 
was  asked  of  her  was  to  allow  herself  to  be  trans 
ported  to  a  place  where  she  would  be  happy,  and 
would  find  companions  fit  for  her,  —  which  he,  her 
only  present  companion,  certainly  was  not.  In  fine, 
he  resolved  to  shed  the  sweet,  fragrant  blood  of  this 
little  violet  that  loved  him  so. 

"  Well ;  let  us  hurry  over  this  part  of  the  story  as 
fast  as  we  can.  He  did  slay  this  pure  young  girl; 
he  took  her  into  the  wood  near  the  house,  an  old 
wood  that  is  standing  yet,  with  some  of  its  magnifi 
cent  oaks;  and  then  he  plunged  a  dagger  into  her 
heart,  after  they  had  had  a  very  tender  and  loving 
talk  together,  in  which  he  had  tried  to  open  the 
matter  tenderly  to  her,  and  make  her  understand, 
that  though  he  was  to  slay  her,  it  was  really  for 
the  very  reason  that  he  loved  her  better  than  any 
thing  else  in  the  world,  and  that  he  would  far  rather 
die  himself,  if  that  would  answer  the  purpose  at  all. 
Indeed,  he  is  said  to  have  offered  her  the  alternative 
of  slaying  him,  and  taking  upon  herself  the  burthen 
of  indefinite  life,  and  the  studies  and  pursuits  by 
which  he  meant  to  benefit  mankind.  But  she,  it  is 
said,  —  this  noble,  pure,  loving  child,  —  she  looked  up 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  117 

into  his  face  and  smiled  sadly,  and  then  snatching 
the  dagger  from  him,  she  plunged  it  into  her  own 
heart.  I  cannot  tell  whether  this  be  true  or  whether 
she  waited  to  be  killed  by  him;  but  this  I  know, 
that  in  the  same  circumstances  I  think  I  should  have 
saved  my  lover  or  my  friend  the  pain  of  killing  me. 
There  she  lay  dead,  at  any  rate,  and  he  buried  her 
in  the  wood,  and  returned  to  the  house;  and,  as  it 
happened,  he  had  set  his  right  foot  in  her  blood,  and 
his  shoe  was  wet  in  it,  and  by  some  miraculous  fate, 
it  left  a  track  all  along  the  wood-path,  and  into  the 
house,  and  on  the  stone  steps  of  the  threshold,  and 
up  into  his  chamber,  all  along ;  and  the  servants  saw 
it  the  next  day,  and  wondered,  and  whispered,  and 
missed  the  fair  young  girl,  and  looked  askance  at 
their  lord's  right  foot,  and  turned  pale,  all  of  them, 
as  death. 

"  And  next,  the  legend  says,  that  Sir  Forrester  was 
struck  with  horror  at  what  he  had  done,  and  could 
not  bear  the  laboratory  where  he  had  toiled  so  long, 
and  was  sick  to  death  of  the  object  that  he  had 
pursued,  and  was  most  miserable,  and  fled  from  his 
old  Hall,  and  was  gone  full  many  a  day*  But  all  the 
while  he  was  gone  there  was  the  mark  of  a  bloody 
footstep  impressed  upon  the  stone  doorstep  of  the 
Hall.  The  track  had  lain  all  along  through  the 
wood-path,  and  across  the  lawn,  to  the  old  Gothic 
door  of  the  Hall ;  but  the  rain,  the  English  rain  that 
is  always  falling,  had  come  the  next  day,  and  washed 
it  all  away.  The  track  had  lain,  too,  across  the, 
broad  hall,  and  up  the  stairs,  and  into  the  lord's 


118  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

study ;  but  there  it  had  lain  on  the  rushes  that  were 
strewn  there,  and  these  the  servants  had  gathered 
carefully  up,  and  thrown  them  away,  and  spread 
fresh  ones.  So  that  it  was  only  on  the  threshold 
that  the  mark  remained. 

"  But  the  legend  says,  that  wherever  Sir  Forrester 
went,  in  his  wanderings  about  the  world,  he  left  a 
bloody  track  behind  him.  It  was  wonderful,  and 
very  inconvenient,  this  phenomenon.  When  he  went 
into  a  church,  you  would  see  the  track  up  the  broad 
aisle,  and  a  little  red  puddle  in  the  place  where  he 
sat  or  knelt.  Once  he  went  to  the  king's  court,  and 
there  being  a  track  up  to  the  very  throne,  the  king 
frowned  upon  him,  so  that  he  never  came  there  any 
more.  Nobody  could  tell  how  it  happened;  his  foot 
was  not  seen  to  bleed,  only  there  was  the  bloody 
track  behind  him,  wherever  he  went ;  and  he  was 
a  horror-stricken  man,  always  looking  behind  him  to 
see  the  track,  and  then  hurrying  onward,  as  if 
to  escape  his  own  tracks;  but  always  they  followed 
him  as  fast. 

uln  the  hall  of  feasting,  there  was  the  bloody 
track  to  his  chair.  The  learned  men  whom  he  con 
sulted  about  this  strange  difficulty  conferred  with 
one  another,  and  with  him,  who  was  equal  to  any 
of  them,  and  pished  and  pshawed,  and  said,  '0, 
there  is  nothing  miraculous  in  this ;  it  is  only 
a  natural  infirmity,  which  can  easily  be  put  an 
end  to,  though,  perhaps,  the  stoppage  of  such  an 
evacuation  will  cause  damage  to  other  parts  of  the 
frame.'  Sir  Forrester  always  said,  '  Stop  it,  my 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  119 

learned  brethren,  if  you  can;  no  matter  what  the 
consequences.'  And  they  did  their  best,  but  without 
result ;  so  that  he  was  still  compelled  to  leave  his 
bloody  track  on  their  college-rooms  and  combination- 
rooms,  the  same  as .  elsewhere ;  and  in  street  and  in 
wilderness ;  yes,  and  in  the  battle-field,  they  say,  his 
track  looked  freshest  and  reddest  of  all.  So,  at  last, 
finding  the  notice  he  attracted  inconvenient,  this 
unfortunate  lord  deemed  it  best  to  go  back  to  his 
own  Hall,  where,  living  among  faithful  old  servants 
born  in  the  family,  he  could  hush  the  matter  up 
better  than  elsewhere,  and  not  be  stared  at  continu 
ally,  or,  glancing  round,  see  people  holding  up  their 
hands  in  terror  at  seeing  a  bloody  track  behind  him. 
And  so  home  he  came,  and  there  he  saw  the  bloody 
track  on  the  doorstep,  and  dolefully  went  into  the 
hall,  and  up  the  stairs,  an  old  servant  ushering  him 
into  his  chamber,  and  half  a  dozen  others  following 
behind,  gazing,  shuddering,  pointing  with  quivering 
fingers,  looking  horror-stricken  in  one  another's  pale 
faces,  and  the  moment  he  had  passed,  running  to  get 
fresh  rushes,  and  to  scour  the  stairs.  The  next  day, 
Sir  Forrester  went  into  the  wood,  and  by  the  aged 
oak  he  found  a  grave,  and  on  the  grave  he  beheld  a 
beautiful  crimson  flower ;  the  most  gorgeous  and 
beautiful,  surely,  that  ever  grew ;  so  rich  it  looked, 
so  full  of  potent  juice.  That  flower  he  gathered;  and 
the  spirit  of  his  scientific  pursuits  coming  upon  him, 
he  knew  that  this  was  the  flower,  produced  out  of  a 
human  life,  that  was  essential  to  the  perfection  of 
his  recipe  for  immortality ;  and  he  made  the  drink, 


120  SEPTIMIUS  FKLTON, 

and  drank  it,  and  became  immortal  in  woe  and  agony, 
still  studying,  still  growing  wiser  and  more  wretched 
in  every  age.  By  and  by  he  vanished  from  the  old 
Hall,  but  not  by  death ;  for  from  generation  to  gen 
eration,  they  say  that  a  bloody  track  is  seen  around 
that  house,  and  sometimes  it  is  tracked  up  into  the 
chambers,  so  freshly  that  you  see  he  must  have 
passed  a  short  time  before ;  and  he  grows  wiser  and 
wiser,  and  lonelier  and  lonelier,  from  age  to  age. 
And  this  is  the  legend  of  the  bloody  footstep,  which 
I  myself  have  seen  at  the  Hall  door.  As  to  the 
flower,  the  plant  of  it  continued  for  several  years 
to  grow  out  of  the  grave ;  and  after  a  while,  perhaps 
a  century  ago,  it  was  transplanted  into  the  garden  of 

Hall,  and  preserved  with  great  care,  and  is  so 

still.  And  as  the  family  attribute  a  kind  of  sacred- 
ness,  or  cursedness,  to  the  flower,  they  can  hardly 
be  prevailed  upon  to  give  any  of  the  seeds,  or  allow 
it  to  be  propagated  elsewhere,  though  the  king  should 
send  to  ask  it.  It  is  said,  too,  that  there  is  still  in 
the  family  the  old  lord's  recipe  for  immortality,  and 
that  several  of  his  collateral  descendants  have  tried 
to  concoct  it,  and  instil  the  flower  into  it,  and  so 
give  indefinite  life;  but  unsuccessfully,  because  the 
seeds  of  the  flower  must  be  planted  in  a  fresh 
grave  of  bloody  death,  in  order  to  make  it  ef 
fectual." 

So  ended  Sybil's  legend ;  in  which  Septimius  was 
struck  by  a  certain  analogy  to  Aunt  Keziah's  Indian 
legend,  —  both  referring  tQ  a  flower  growing  out  of 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  121 

a  grave  ;  and  also  he  did  not  fail  to  be  impressed 
with  the  wild  coincidence  of  this  disappearance  of 
an  ancestor  of  the  family  long  ago,  and  the  appear 
ance,  at  about  the  same  epoch,  of  the  first  known 
ancestor  of  his  own  family,  the  man  with  wizard's 
attributes,  with  the  bloody  footstep,  and  whose  sud 
den  disappearance  became  a  myth,  under  the  idea 
that  the  Devil  carried  him  away.  Yet,  on  the  whole, 
this  wild  tradition,  doubtless  becoming  wilder  in 
Sybil's  wayward  and  morbid  fancy,  had  the  effect  to 
give  him  a  sense  of  the  fantasticalness  of  his  present 
pursuit,  and  that  in  adopting  it,  he  had  strayed  into 
a  region  long  abandoned  to  superstition,  and  where 
the  shadows  of  forgotten  dreams  go  when  men  are 
done  with  them;  where  past  worships  are;  where 
great  Pan  went  when  he  died  to  the  outer  world; 
a  limbo  into  which  living  men  sometimes  stray  when 
they  think  themselves  sensiblest  and  wisest,  and 
whence  they  do  not  often  find  their  way  back  into 
the  real  world.  Visions  of  wealth,  visions  of  fame, 
visions  of  philanthropy,  —  all  visions  find  room  here, 
and  glide  about  without  jostling.  When  Septimius 
came  to  look  at  the  matter  in  his  present  mood,  the 
thought  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  perhaps  got 
into  such  a  limbo,  and  that  Sybil's  legend,  which 
looked  so  wild,  might  be  all  of  a  piece  with  his  own 
present  life ;  for  Sybil  herself  seemed  an  illusion,  and 
so,  most  strangely,  did  Aunt  Keziah,  whom  he  had 
known  all  his  life,  with  her  homely  and  quaint  char 
acteristics  ;  the  grim  doctor,  with  his  brandy  and  his 
German  pipe,  impressed  him  in  the  same  way  ;  and 
6 


122  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

these,  altogether,  made  his  homely  cottage  by  the 
wayside  seem  an  unsubstantial  edifice,  such  as  castles 
in  the  air  are  built  of,  and  the  ground  he  trod  on 
unreal ;  and  that  grave,  which  he  knew  to  contain  the 
decay  of  a  beautiful  young  man,  but  a  fictitious  swell 
formed  by  the  fantasy  of  his  eyes.  All  unreal ; 
all  illusion !  Was  Rose  Garfield  a  deception  too, 
with  her  daily  beauty,  and  daily  cheerfulness,  and 
daily  worth?  In  short,  it  was  such  a  moment  as  I 
suppose  all  men  feel  (at  least,  I  can  answer  for  one), 
when  the  real  scene  and  picture  of  life  swims,  jars, 
shakes,  seems  about  to  be  broken  up  and  dispersed, 
like  the  picture  in  a  smooth  pond,  when  we  disturb 
its  tranquil  mirror  by  throwing  in  a  stone ;  and 
though  the  scene  soon  settles  itself,  and  looks  as  real 
as  before,  a  haunting  doubt  keeps  close  at  hand,  as 
long  as  we  live,  asking,  "Is  it  stable  1  Am  I  sure 
of  it  ]  Am  I  certainly  not  dreaming  1  See ;  it 
trembles  again,  ready  to  dissolve." 

Applying  himself  with  earnest  diligence  to  his  at 
tempt  to  decipher  and  interpret  the  mysterious  man 
uscript,  working  with  his  whole  mind  and  strength, 
Septimius  did  not  fail  of  some  flattering  degree  of 
success. 

A  good  deal  of  the  manuscript,  as  has  been  said,  was 
in  an  ancient  English  script,  although  so  uncouth  and 
shapeless  were  the  characters,  that  it  was  not  easy  to 
resolve  them  into  letters,  or  to  believe  that  they  were 
anything  but  arbitrary  and  dismal  blots  and  scrawls 
upon  the  yellow  paper ;  without  meaning,  vague,  like 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  123 

the  misty  and  undefined  germs  of  thought  as  they  ex 
ist  in  our  minds  before  clothing  themselves  in  words. 
These,  however,  as  he  concentrated  his  mind  upon 
them,  took  distincter  shape,  like  cloudy  stars  at  the 
power  of  the  telescope,  and  became  sometimes  English, 
sometimes  Latin,  strangely  patched  together,  as  if,  so 
accustomed  was  the  writer  to  use  that  language  in 
which  all  the  science  of  that  age  was  usually  embodied, 
that  he  really  mixed  it  unconsciously  with  the  ver 
nacular,  or  used  both  indiscriminately.  There  was 
some  Greek,  too,  but  not  much.  Then  frequently 
came  in  the  cipher,  te  the  study  of  which  Septimius 
had  applied  himself  for  some  time  back,  with  the  aid 
of  the  books  borrowed  from  the  college  library,  and 
not  without  success.  Indeed,  it  appeared  to  him,  on 
close  observation,  that  it  had  not  been  the  intention 
of  the  writer  really  to  conceal  what  he  had  written 
from  any  earnest  student,  but  rather  to  lock  it  up  for 
safety  in  a  sort  of  coffer,  of  which  diligence  and  insight 
should  be  the  key,  and  the  keen  intelligence  with 
which  the  meaning  was  sought  should  be  the  test 
of  the  seeker's  being  entitled  to  possess  the  secret 
treasure. 

Amid  a  great  deal  of  misty  stuff,  he  found  the 
document  to  consist  chiefly,  contrary  to  his  suppo 
sition  beforehand,  of  certain  rules  of  life ;  he  would 
have  taken  it,  on  a  casual  inspection,  for  an  essay  of 
counsel,  addressed  by  some  great  and  sagacious  man 
to  a  youth  in  whom  he  felt  an  interest,  —  so  secure 
and  good  a  doctrine  of  life  was  propounded,  such 
excellent  maxims  there  were,  such  wisdom  in  all 


124  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

matters  that  came  within  the  writer's  purview.  It 
was  as  much  like  a  digested  synopsis  of  some  old 
philosopher's  wise  rules  of  conduct,  as  anything  else. 
But  on  closer  inspection,  Septimius,  in  his  unsophis 
ticated  consideration  of  this  matter,  was  not  so  well 
satisfied.  True,  everything  that  was  said  seemed 
not  discordant  with  the  rules  of  social  morality ; 
not  unwise :  it  was  shrewd,  sagacious ;  it  did  not 
appear  to  infringe  upon  the  rights  of  mankind  ;  but 
there  was  something  left  out,  something  unsatis 
factory,  —  what  was  it  1  There  was  certainly  a  cold 
spell  in  the  document;  a  magic,  not  of  fire,  but  of 
ice ;  and  Septimius  the  more  exemplified  its  power, 
in  that  he  soon  began  to  be  insensible  of  it.  It 
affected  him  as  if  it  had  been  written  by  some 
greatly  wise  and  worldly-experienced  man,  like  the 
writer  of  Ecclesiastes ;  for  it  was  full  of  truth.  It 
was  a  truth  that  does  not  make  men  better,  though 
perhaps  calmer ;  and  beneath  which  the  buds  of 
happiness  curl  up  like  tender  leaves  in  a  frost. 
What  was  the  matter  with  this  document,  that  the 
young  man's  youth  perished  out  of  him  as  he  read  1 
What  icy  hand  had  written  it,  so  that  the  heart 
was  chilled  out  of  the  reader  1  Not  that  Septimius 
was  sensible  of  this  character ;  at  least,  not  long,  — 
for  as  he  read,  there  grew  upon  him  a  mood  of  calm 
satisfaction,  such  as  he  had  never  felt  before.  His 
mind  seemed  to  grow  clearer ;  his  perceptions  most 
acute ;  his  sense  of  the  reality  of  things  grew  to  be 
such,  that  he  felt  as  if  he  could  touch  and  handle 
all  his  thoughts,  feel  round  about  all  their  outline 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  125 

and  circumference,  and  know  them  with  a  certainty, 
as  if  they  were  material  things.  Not  that  all  this 
was  in  the  document  itself;  but  by  studying  it  so 
earnestly,  and,  as  it  were,  creating  its  meaning  anew 
for  himself,  out  of  such  illegible  materials,  he  caught 
the  temper  of  the  old  writer's  mind,  after  so  many 
ages  as  that  tract  had  lain  in  the  mouldy  and  musty 
manuscript.  He  was  magnetized  with  him ;  "a  power 
ful  intellect  acted  powerfully  upon  him ;  perhaps, 
even,  there  was  a  sort  of  spell  and  mystic  influence 
imbued  into  the  paper,  and  mingled  with  the  yellow 
ink,  that  steamed  forth  by  the  effort  of  this  young 
man's  earnest  rubbing,  as  it  were,  and  by  the  action 
of  his  mind,  applied  to  it  as  intently  as  he  pos 
sibly  could  ;  and  even  his  handling  the  paper,  his 
bending  over  it,  and  breathing  upon  it,  had  its 
effect. 

It  is  not  in  our  power,  nor  in  our  wish,  to  produce 
the  original  form,  nor  yet  the  spirit,  of  a  production 
which  is  better  lost  to  the  world :  because  it  was  the 
expression  of  a  human  intellect  originally  greatly 
gifted,  and  capable  of  high  things,  but  gone  utterly 
astray,  partly  by  its  own  subtlety,  partly  by  yielding 
to  the  temptations  of  the  lower  part  of  its  nature,  by 
yielding  the  spiritual  to  a  keen  sagacity  of  lower 
things,  until  it  was  quite  fallen ;  and  yet  fallen  in 
such  a  way,  that  it  seemed  not  only  to  itself,  but  to 
mankind,  not  fallen  at  all,  but  wise  and  good,  and 
fulfilling  all  the  ends  of  intellect  in  such  a  life  as 
ours,  and  proving,  moreover,  that  earthly  life  was 
good,  and  all  that  the  development  of  our  nature 


126  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

demanded.  All  this  is  better  forgotten  ;  better 
burnt ;  better  never  thought  over  again ;  and  all 
the  more,  because  its  aspect  was  so  wise,  and  even 
praiseworthy.  But  what  we  must  preserve  of  it 
were  certain  rules  of  life  and  moral  diet,  not  exactly 
expressed  in  the  document,  but  which,  as  it  were, 
on  its  being  duly  received  into  Septimius's  mind, 
were  precipitated  from  the  rich  solution,  and  crys 
tallized  into  diamonds,  and  which  he  found  to  be 
the  moral  dietetics,  so  to  speak,  by  observing  which 
he  was  to  achieve  the  end  of  earthly  immortality, 
whose  physical  nostrum  was  given  in  the  recipe 
which,  with  the  help  of  Doctor  Portsoaken  and  his 
Aunt  Keziah,  he  had  already  pretty  satisfactorily 
made  out. 

"  Keep  thy  heart  at  seventy  throbs  in  a  minute  ; 
all  more  than  that  wears  away  life  too  quickly. 
If  thy  respiration  be  too  quick,  think  with  thyself 
that  thou  hast  sinned  against  natural  order  and 
moderation. 

"  Drink  not  wine  nor  strong  drink  ;  and  observe 
that  this  rule  is  worthiest  in  its  symbolic  meaning. 

"  Bask  daily  in  the  sunshine,  and  let  it  rest  on  thy 
heart. 

"  Run  not ;  leap  not ;  walk  at  a  steady  pace,  and 
count  thy  paces  per  day. 

"  If  thou  feelest,  at  any  time,  a  throb  of  the  heart, 
pause  on  the  instant,  and  analyze  it ;  fix  thy  mental 
eye  steadfastly  upon  it,  and  inquire  why  such  com 
motion  is. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  .     127 

"  Hate  ngt  any  man  nor  woman  ;  be  not  angry,  un 
less  at  any  time  thy  blood  seem  a  little  cold  and  tor 
pid  ;  cut  out  all  rankling  feelings,  they  are  poisonous 
to  thee.  If,  in  thy  waking  moments,  or  in  thy 
dreams,  thou  hast  thoughts  of  strife  or  unpleasantness 
with  any  man,  strive  quietly  with  thyself  to  forget 
him. 

"  Have  no  friendships  with  an  imperfect  man,  with 
a  man  in  bad  health,  of  violent  passions,  of  any 
characteristic  that  evidently  disturbs  his  own  life, 
and  so  may  have  disturbing  influence  on  thine. 
Shake  not  any  man  by  the  hand,  because  thereby,  if 
there  be  any  evil  in  the  man,  it  is  likely  to  be  com 
municated  to  thee. 

"  Kiss  no  woman  if  her  lips  be  red ;  look  not  upon 
her  if  she  be  very  fair.  Touch  not  her  hand  if  thy 
finger-tips  be  found  to  thrill  with  hers  ever  so  little. 
On  the  whole,  shun  woman,  for  she  is  apt  to  be  a 
disturbing  influence.  If  thou  love  her,  all  is  over, 
and  thy  whole  past  and  remaining  labor  and  pains 
will  be  in  vain. 

"  Do  some  decent  degree  of  good  and  kindness  in 
thy  daily  life,  for  the  result  is  a  slight  pleasurable 
sense  that  will  seem  to  warm  and  delectate  thee  with 
felicitous  self-laud  ings ;  and  all  that  brings  thy  thoughts 
to  thyself  tends  to  invigorate  that  central  principle  by 
the  growth  of  which  thou  art  to  give  thyself  indefinite 
life. 

"  Do  not  any  act  manifestly  evil ;  it  may  grow  upon 
thee,  and  corrode  thee  in  after-years.  Do  not  any 
foolish  good  act ;  it  may  change  thy  wise  habits. 


128  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"Eat  no  spiced  meats.  Young  chickens,  new-fallen 
lambs,  fruits,  bread  four  days  old,  milk,  freshest 
butter,  will  make  thy  fleshy  tabernacle  youthful. 

"From  sick  people,  maimed  wretches,  afflicted 
people,  —  all  of  whom  show  themselves  at  variance 
with  things  as  they  should  be,  —  from  people  beyond 
their  wits,  from  people  in  a  melancholic  mood,  from 
people  in  extravagant  joy,  from  teething  children, 
from  dead  corpses,  turn  away  thine  eyes  and  depart 
elsewhere. 

"  If  beggars  haunt  thee,  let  thy  servants  drive  them 
away,  thou  withdrawing  out  of  ear-shot. 

"  Crying  and  sickly  children,  and  teething  children, 
as  aforesaid,  carefully  avoid.  Drink  the  breath  of 
wholesome  infants  as  often  as  thou  conveniently 
canst,  —  it  is  good  for  thy  purpose ;  also  the  breath 
of  buxom  maids,  if  thou  mayest  without  undue  dis 
turbance  of  the  flesh,  drink  it  as  a  morning-draught, 
as  medicine;  also  the  breath  of  cows  as  they  return 
from  rich  pasture  at  eventide. 

"  If  thou  seest  human  poverty,  or  suffering,  and  it 
trouble  thee,  strive  moderately  to  relieve  it,  seeing 
that  thus  thy  mood  will  be  changed  to  a  pleasant  self- 
laudation. 

"Practise  thyself  in  a  certain  continual  smile,  for 
its  tendency  will  be  to  compose  thy  frame  of  being, 
and  keep  thee  from  too  much  wear. 

"  Search  not  to  see  if  thou  hast  a  gray  hair ;  scruti 
nize  not  thy  forehead  to  find  a  wrinkle  \  nor  the  cor 
ners  of  thy  eyes  to  discover  if  they  be  corrugated.  Such 
things,  being  gazed  at,  daily  take  heart  and  grov/. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  129 

"Desire  nothing  too  fervently,  not  even  life;  yet 
keep  thy  hold  upon  it  mightily,  quietly,  unshakably, 
for  as  long  as  thou  really  art  resolved  to  live,  Death, 
with  all  his  force,  shall  have  no  power  against  thee. 

"Walk  not  beneath  tottering  ruins,  nor  houses 
being  put  up,  nor  climb  to  the  top  of  a  mast,  nor 
approach  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  nor  stand  in  the 
way  of  the  lightning,  nor  cross  a  swollen  river,  nor 
voyage  at  sea,  nor  ride  a  skittish  horse,  nor  be  shot 
at  by  an  arrow,  nor  confront  a  sword,  nor  put  thy 
self  in  the  way  of  violent  death ;  for  this  is  hateful, 
and  breaketh  through  all  wise  rules. 

"Say  thy  prayers  at  bedtime,  if  thou  deemest  it 
will  give  thee  quieter  sleep;  yet  let  it  not  trouble 
thee  if  thou  forgettest  them. 

"Change  thy  shirt  daily;  thereby  thou  castest  off 
yesterday's  decay,  and  imbibest  the  freshness  of  the 
morning's  life,  which  enjoy  with  smelling  to  roses,  and 
other  healthy  and  fragrant  flowers,  and  live  the  longer 
for  it.  Roses  are  made  to  that  end. 

"  Read  not  great  poets ;  they  stir  up  thy  heart ;  and 
the  human  heart  is  a  soil  which,  if  deeply  stirred,  is 
apt  to  give  out  noxious  vapors." 

Such  were  some  of  the  precepts  which  Septimiug 
gathered  and  reduced  to  definite  form  out  of  this 
wonderful  document ;  and  he  appreciated  their  wis 
dom,  and  saw  clearly  that  they  must  be  absolutely 
essential  to  the  success  of  the  medicine  with  which 
they  were  connected.  In  themselves,  almost,  they 
seemed  capable  of  prolonging  life  to  an  indefinite 
6*  i 


130  SEPTIMUS  FELTON. 

period,  so  wisely  were  they  conceived,  so  well  did 
they  apply  to  the  causes  which  almost  invariably 
wear  away  this  poor,  short  life  of  men,  years  and 
years  before  even  the  shattered  constitutions  that 
they  received  from  their  forefathers  need  compel 
them  to  die.  He  deemed  himself  well  rewarded  for 
all  his  labor  and  pains,  should  nothing  else  follow 
but  his  reception  and  proper  appreciation  of  these 
wise  rules;  but  continually,  as  he  read  the  manu 
script,  more  truths,  and,  for  aught  I  know,  pro- 
founder  and  more  practical  ones,  developed  them 
selves;  and,  indeed,  small  as  the  manuscript  looked, 
Septimius  thought  that  he  should  find  a  volume  as 
big  as  the  most  ponderous  folio  in  the  college  library 
too  small  to  contain  its  wisdom.  It  seemed  to  drip 
and  distil  with  precious  fragrant  drops,  whenever 
he  took  it  out  of  his  desk ;  it  diffused  wisdom  like 
those  vials  of  perfume  which,  small  as  they  look, 
keep  diffusing  an  airy  wealth  of  fragrance  for  years 
and  years  together,  scattering  their  virtue  in  incal 
culable  volumes  of  invisible  vapor,  and  yet  are  none 
the  less  in  bulk  foV  all  they  give;  whenever  he 
turned  over  the  yellow  leaves,  bits  of  gold,  diamonds 
of  good  size,  precious  pearls,  seemed  to  drop  out 
from  between  them. 

And  now  ensued  a  surprise  which,  though  of  a 
happy  kind,  was  almost  too  much  for  him  to  bear; 
for  it  made  his  heart  beat  considerably  faster  than 
the  wise  rules  of  his  manuscript  prescribed.  Going 
up  on  his  hill-top,  as  summer  wore  away  (he  had  not 
been  there  for  some  time),  and  walking  by  the  little 


SEPTIMIUS  FKLTON.  131 

flowery  hillock,  as  so  many  a  hundred  times  before, 
what  should  he  see  there  but  a  new  flower,  that 
during  the  time  he  had  been  poring  over  the  manu 
script  so  sedulously  had  developed  itself,  blossomed, 
put  forth  its  petals,  bloomed  into  full  perfection,  and 
now,  with  the  dew  of  the  morning  upon  it,  was 
waiting  to  offer  itself  to  Septimius  1  He  trembled  as 
he  looked  at  it,  it  was  too  much  almost  to  bear ;  —  it 
was  so  very  beautiful,  so  very  stately,  so  very  rich, 
so  very  mysterious  and  wonderful.  It  was  like  a 
person,  like  a  life  !  Whence  did  it  come  1  He  stood 
apart  from  it,  gazing  in  wonder ;  tremulously  taking 
in  its  aspect,  and  thinking  of  the  legends  he  had 
heard  from  Aunt  Keziah  and  from  Sybil  Dacy;  and 
how  that  this  flower,  like  the  one  that  their  wild 
traditions  told  of,  had  grown  out  of  a  grave,  —  out 
of  a  grave  in  which  he  had  lain  one  slain  by  himself. 

The  flower  was  of  the  richest  crimson,  illuminated 
with  a  golden  centre  of  a  perfect  and  stately  beauty. 
From  the  best  descriptions  that  I  have  been  able  to 
gain  of  it,  it  was  more  like  a  dahlia  than  any  other 
flower  with  which  I  have  acquaintance;  yet  it  does 
not  satisfy  me  to  believe  it  really  of  that  species,  for 
the  dahlia  is  not  a  flower  of  any  deep  characteristics, 
either  lively  or  malignant,  and  this  flower,  which 
Septimius  found  so  strangely,  seems  to  have  had  one 
or  the  other.  If  I  have  rightly  understood,  it  had 
a  fragrance  which  the  dahlia  lacks ;  and  there  was 
something  hidden  in  its  centre,  a  mystery,  even  in 
its  fullest  bloom,  not  developing  itself  so  openly  as 
the  heartless,  yet  not  dishonest,  dahlia.  I  remember 


132  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

in  England  to  have  seen  a  flower  at  Eaton  Hall,  in 
Cheshire,  in  those  magnificent  gardens,  which  may 
have  been  like  this,  but  my  remembrance  of  it  is 
not  sufficiently  distinct  to  enable  me  to  describe  it 
better  than  by  saying  that  it  was  crimson,  with  a 
gleam  of  gold  in  its  centre,  which  yet  was  partly 
hidden.  It  had  many  petals  of  great  richness. 

Septimius,  bending  eagerly  over  the  plant,  saw 
that  this  was  not  to  be  the  only  flower  that  it  would 
produce  that  season;  on  the  contrary,  there  was  to 
be  a  great  abundance  of  them,  a  luxuriant  harvest ; 
as  if  the  crimson  offspring  of  this  one  plant  would 
cover  the  whole  hillock,  —  as  if  the  dead  youth  be 
neath  had  burst  into  a  resurrection  of  many  crimson 
flowers !  And  in  its  veiled  heart,  moreover,  there 
was  a  mystery  like  death,  although  it  seemed  to 
cover  something  bright  and  golden. 

Day  after  day  the  strange  crimson  flower  bloomed 
more  and  more  abundantly,  until  it  seemed  almost 
to  cover  the  little  hillock,  which  became  a  mere  bed 
of  it,  apparently  turning  all  its  capacity  of  produc 
tion  to  this  flower;  for  the  other  plants,  Septimius 
thought,  seemed  to  shrink  away,  and  give  place  to 
it,  as  if  they  were  unworthy  to  compare  with  the 
richness,  glory,  and  worth  of  this  their  queen.  The 
fervent  summer  burned  into  it,  the  dew  and  the  rain 
ministered  to  it;  the  soil  was  rich,  for  it  was  a 
human  heart  contributing  its  juices,  — a  heart  in  its 
fiery  youth  sodden  in  its  own  blood,  so  that  passion, 
unsatisfied  loves  and  longings,  ambition  that  never 
won  its  object,  tender  dreams  and  throbs,  angers, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTOK.  133 

lusts,  hates,  all  concentrated  by  life,  came  sprouting 
in  it,  and  its  mysterious  being,  and  streaks  and 
shadows  had  some  meaning  in  each  of  them. 

The  two  girls,  when  they  next  ascended  the  hill, 
saw  the  strange  flower,  and  Rose  admired  it,  and 
wondered  at  it,  but  stood  at  a  distance,  without 
showing  an  attractipn  towards  it,  rather  an  unde 
fined  aversion,  as  if  she  thought  it  might  be  a  poison 
flower;  at  any  rate  she  would  not  be  inclined  to 
wear  it  in  her  bosom.  Sybil  Dacy  examined  it 
closely,  touched  its  leaves,  smelt  it,  looked  at  it  with 
a  botanist's  eye,  and  at  last  remarked  to  Rose, 
"Yes,  it  grows  well  in  this  new  soil;  methinks  it 
looks  like  a  new  human  life." 

"  What  is  the  strange  flower  1 "  asked  Rose. 

"The  Sanguinea  sanguinissima"  said  Sybil. 

It  so  happened  about  this  time  that  poor  Aunt 
Keziah,  in  spite  of  her  constant  use  of  that  bitter 
mixture  of  hers,  was  in  a  very  bad  state  of  health. 
She  looked  all  of  an  unpleasant  yellow,  with  blood 
shot  eyes ;  she  complained  terribly  of  her  inwards. 
She  had  an  ugly  rheumatic  hitch  in  her  motion 
from  place  to  place,  and  was  heard  to  mutter  many 
wishes  that  she  had  a  broomstick  to  fly  about  upon, 
and  she  used  to  bind  up  her  head  with  a  dishclout, 
or  what  looked  to  be  such,  and  would  sit  by  the 
kitchen  fire  even  in  the  warm  days,  bent  over  it, 
crouching  as  if  she  wanted  to  take  the  whole  fire 
into  her  poor  cold  heart  or  gizzard,  —  groaning  regu 
larly  with  each  breath  a  spiteful  and  resentful  groan, 


134  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

as  if  she  fought  womanfully  with  her  infirmities; 
and  she  continually  smoked  her  pipe,  and  sent  out 
the  breath  of  her  complaint  visibly  in  that  evil 
odor ;  and  sometimes  she  murmured  a  little  prayer, 
but  somehow  or  other  the  evil  and  bitterness,  acridity, 
pepperiness,  of  her  natural  disposition  overcame  the 
acquired  grace  which  compelled  her  to  pray,  inso 
much  that,  after  all,  you  would  have  thought  the 
poor  old  woman  was  cursing  with  all  her  rheumatic 
might.  All  the  time  an  old,  broken-nosed,  brown 
earthen  jug,  covered  with  the  lid  of  a  black  teapot, 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  embers,  steaming  forever, 
and  sometimes  bubbling  a  little,  and  giving  a  great 
puff,  as  if  it  were  sighing  and  groaning  in  sympathy 
with  poor  Aunt  Keziah,  and  when  it  sighed  there 
came  a  great  steam  of  herby  fragrance,  not  particu 
larly  pleasant,  into  the  kitchen.  And  ever  and  anon, 
—  half  a  dozen  times  it  might  be,  —  of  an  afternoon, 
Aunt  Keziah  took  a  certain  bottle  from  a  private 
receptacle  of  hers,  and  also  a  teacup,  and  likewise  a 
little,  old-fashioned  silver  teaspoon,  with  which  she 
measured  three  teaspoonfuls  of  some  spirituous  liquor 
into  the  teacup,  half  filled  the  cup  with  the  hot 
decoction,  drank  it  off,  gave  a  grunt  of  content,  and 
for  the  space  of  half  an  hour  appeared  to  find  life 
tolerable. 

But  one  day  poor  Aunt  Keziah  found  herself 
unable,  partly  from  rheumatism,  partly  from  other 
sickness  or  weakness,  and  partly  from  dolorous  ill- 
spirits,  to  keep  about  any  longer,  so  she  betook  her 
self  to  her  bed;  and  betimes  in  the  forenoon  Sep- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  135 

timius  heard  a  tremendous  knocking  on  the  floor  of 
her  bedchamber,  which  happened  to  be  the  room 
above  his  own.  He  was  the  only  person  in  or  about 
the  house ;  so,  with  great  reluctance,  he  left  his 
studies,  which  were  upon  the  recipe,  in  respect  to 
which  he  was  trying  to  make  out  the  mode  of  con 
coction,  which  was  told  in  such  a  mysterious  way 
that  he  could  not  well  tell  either  the  quantity  of 
the  ingredients,  the  mode  of  trituration,  nor  in 
what  way  their  virtue  was  to  be  extracted  and  com 
bined. 

Running  hastily  up  stairs,  he  found  Aunt  Keziah 
lying  in  bed,  and  groaning  with  great  spite  and 
bitterness;  so  that,  indeed,  it  seemed  not  improvi 
dent  ial  that  such  an  inimical  state  of  mind  towards 
the  human  race  was  accompanied  with  an  almost 
inability  of  motion,  else  it  would  not  be  safe  to  be 
within  a  considerable  distance  of  her. 

"  Seppy,  you  good-for-nothing,  are  you  going  to 
see  me  lying  here,  dying,  without  trying  to  do  any 
thing  for  mel" 

"Dying,  Aunt  Keziah  1"  repeated  the  young  man. 
"  I  hope  not !  What  can  I  do  for  you  1  Shall  I  go 
for  Rose  1  or  call  a  neighbor  in  1  or  the  doctor  1 " 

"  No,  no,  you  fool ! "  said  the  afflicted  person. 
"  You  can  do  all  that  anybody  can  for  me  ;  and  that 
is  to  put  my  mixture  on  the  kitchen  fire  till  it 
steams,  and  is  just  ready  to  bubble ;  then  measure 
three  teaspoonfuls  —  or  it  may  be  four,  as  I  am  very 
bad  —  of  spirit  into  a  teacup,  fill  it  half  full,  —  or 
it  may  be  quite  full,  for  I  am  very  bad,  as  I  said 


136  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

afore ;  six  teaspoonfuls  of  spirit  into  a  cup  of  mix 
ture,  and  let  me  have  it  as  soon  as  may  be;  and 
don't  break  the  cup,  nor  spill  the  precious  mixture, 
for  goodness  knows  when  I  can  go  into  the  woods 
to  gather  any  more.  Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  it 's  a  wicked, 
miserable  world,  and  I  am  the  most  miserable  crea 
ture  in  it.  Be  quick,  you  good-for-nothing,  and  do 
as  I  say  !  " 

Septimius  hastened  down ;  but  as  he  went,  a 
thought  came  into  his  head,  which  it  occurred  to 
him  might  result  in  great  benefit  to  Aunt  Keziah, 
as  well  as  to  the  great  cause  of  science  and  human 
good,  and  to  the  promotion  of  his  own  purpose,  in 
the  first  place.  A  day  or  two  ago,  he  had  gathered 
several  of  the  beautiful  flowers,  and  laid  them  in  the 
fervid  sun  to  dry ;  and  they  now  seemed  to  be  in 
about  the  state  in  which  the  old  woman  was  accus 
tomed  to  use  her  herbs,  so  far  as  Septimius  had 
observed.  Now,  if  these  flowers  were  really,  as  there 
was  so  much  reason  for  supposing,  the  one  ingredient 
that  had  for  hundreds  of  years  been  missing  out  of 
Aunt  Keziah's  nostrum,  —  if  it  was  this  which  that 
strange  Indian  sagamore  had  mingled  with  his  drink 
with  such  beneficial  effect,  —  why  should  not  Sep 
timius  now  restore  it,  and  if  it  would  not  make  his 
beloved  aunt  young  again,  at  least  assuage  the  violent 
symptoms,  and  perhaps  prolong  her  valuable  life 
some  years,  for  the  solace  and  delight  of  her  nu 
merous  friends  1  Septimius,  like  other  people  of 
investigating  and  active  minds,  had  a  great  tendency 
to  experiment,  and  so  good  an  opportunity  as  the 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  137 

present,  where  (perhaps  he  thought)  there  was  so 
little  to  be  risked  at  worst,  and  so  much  to  be  gained, 
was  not  to  be  neglected  ;  so,  without  more  ado,  he 
stirred  three  of  the  crimson  flowers  into  the  earthen 
jug,  set  it  on  the  edge  of  the  fire,  stirred  it  well,  and 
when  it  steamed,  threw  up  little  scarlet  bubbles,  and 
was  about  to  boil,  he  measured  out  the  spirits,  as 
Aunt  Keziah  had  bidden  him,  and  then  filled  the 
teacup. 

"  Ah,  this  will  do  her  good ;  little  does  she  think, 
poor  old  thing,  what  a  rare  and  costly  medicine  is 
about  to  be  given  her.  This  will  set  her  on  her 
feet  again." 

The  hue  was  somewhat  changed,  he  thought,  from 
what  he  had  observed  of  Aunt  Keziah's  customary 
decoction ;  instead  of  a  turbid  yellow,  the  crimson 
petals  of  the  flower  had  tinged  it,  and  made  it 
almost  red  \  not  a  brilliant  red,  however,  nor  the 
least  inviting  in  appearance.  Septimius  smelt  it, 
and  thought  he  could  distinguish  a  little  of  the  rich 
odor  of  the  flower,  but  was  not  sure.  He  consid 
ered  whether  to  taste  it ;  but  the  horrible  flavor  of 
Aunt  Keziah's  decoction  recurred  strongly  to  his 
remembrance,  and  he  concluded,  that  were  he  evi 
dently  at  the  point  of  death,  he  might  possibly  be 
bold  enough  to  taste  it  again ;  but  that  nothing 
short  of  the  hope  of  a  century's  existence,  at  least, 
would  repay  another  taste  of  that  fierce  and  nauseous 
bitterness.  Aunt  Keziah  loved  it ;  and  as  she  brewed, 
so  let  her  drink. 

He  went  up  stairs,  careful  not  to  spill  a  drop  of 


138  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

the  brimming  cup,  and  approached  the  old  woman's 
bedside,  where  she  lay,  groaning  as  before,  and 
breaking  out  into  a  spiteful  croak  the  moment  he 
was  within  ear-shot. 

"  You  don't  care  whether  I  live  or  die,"  said  she. 
"You've  been  waiting  in  hopes  I  shall  die,  and  so 
save  yourself  further  trouble." 

"  By  no  means,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  Septimius. 
"Here  is  the  medicine,  which  I  have  warmed,  and 
measured  out,  and  mingled,  as  well  as  I  knew  how; 
and  I  think  it  will  do  you  a  great  deal  of  good." 

"Won't  you  taste  it,  Seppy,  my  dear?"  said 
Aunt  Keziah,  mollified  by  the  praise  of  her  beloved 
mixture.  "  Drink  first,  dear,  so  that  my  sick  old 
lips  need  not  taint  it.  You  look  pale,  Septimius ;  it 
will  do  you  good." 

"  No,  Aunt  Keziah,  I  do  not  need  it ;  and  it  were  a 
pity  to  waste  your  precious  drink,"  said  he. 

"  It  does  not  look  quite  the  right  color,"  said  Aunt 
Keziah,  as  she  took  the  cup  in  her  hand.  "You  must 
have  dropped  some  soot  into  it."  Then  as  she  raised 
it  to  her  lips,  "  It  does  not  smell  quite  right.  But, 
woe 's  me !  how  can  I  expect  anybody  but  myself  to 
make  this  precious  drink  as  it  should  be  1 " 

She  drank  it  off  at  two  gulps;  for  she  appeared 
to  hurry  it  oif  faster  than  usual,  as  if  not  tempted 
by  the  exquisiteness  of  its  flavor  to  dwell  upon  it 
so  long. 

"You  have  not  made  it  just  right,  Seppy,"  said 
she  in  a  milder  tone  than  before,  for  she  seemed  to 
feel  the  customary  soothing  influence  of  the  draught, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  139 

w  but  you  '11  do  better  the  next  time.  It  had  a  queer 
taste,  methought ;  or  is  it  that  my  mouth  is  getting 
out  of  taste?  Hard  times  it  will  be  for  poor  Aunt 
Kezzy,  if  she's  to  lose  her  taste  for  the  medicine 
that,  under  Providence,  has  saved  her  life  for  so 
many  years." 

She  gave  back  the  cup  to  Septimius,  after  looking  a 
little  curiously  at  the  dregs. 

"It  looks  like  bloodroot,  don't  it?"  said  she. 
"  Perhaps  it 's  my  own  fault  after  all.  I  gathered  a 
fresh  bunch  of  the  yarbs  yesterday  afternoon,  and 
put  them  to  steep,  and  it  may  be  I  was  a  little  blind, 
for  it  was  between  daylight  and  dark,  and  the  moon 
shone  on  me  before  I  had  finished.  I  thought  how 
the  witches  used  to  gather  their  poisonous  stuff  at 
such  times,  and  what  pleasant  uses  they  made  of 
it,  —  but  those  are  sinful  thoughts,  Seppy,  sinful 
thoughts  !  so  I  '11  say  a  prayer  and  try  to  go  to  sleep. 
I  feel  very  noddy  all  at  once." 

Septimius  drew  the  bedclothes  up  about  her 
shoulders,  for  she  complained  of  being  very  chilly, 
and,  carefully  putting  her  stick  within  reach,  went 
down  to  his  own  room,  and  resumed  his  studies, 
trying  to  make  out  from  those  aged  hieroglyphics, 
to  which  he  was  now  so  well  accustomed,  what  was 
the  precise  method  of  making  the  elixir  of  immor 
tality.  Sometimes,  as  men  in  deep  thought  do,  he 
rose  from  his  chair,  and  walked  to  and  fro,  the  four 
or  five  steps  or  so,  that  conveyed  him  from  end  to 
end  of  his  little  room.  At  one  of  these  times  he 
chanced  to  look  in  the  little  looking-glass  that  hung 


140  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

between  the  windows,  and  was  startled  at  the  pale 
ness  of  his  face.  It  was  quite  white,  indeed.  Sep- 
timius  was  not  in  the  least  a  foppish  young  man ; 
careless  he  was  in  dress,  though  often  his  apparel 
took  an  unsought  picturesqueness  that  set  off  his 
slender,  agile  figure,  perhaps  from  some  quality  of 
spontaneous  arrangement  that  he  had  inherited  from 
his  Indian  ancestry.  Yet  many  women  might  have 
found  a  charm  in  that  dark,  thoughtful  face,  with 
its  hidden  fire  and  energy,  although  Septimius  never 
thought  of  its  being  handsome,  and  seldom  looked  at 
it.  Yet  now  he  was  drawn  to  it  by  seeing  how 
strangely  white  it  was,  and,  gazing  at  it,  he  observed 
that  since  he  considered  it  last,  a  very  deep  furrow,  or 
corrugation,  or  fissure,  it  might  almost  be  called,  had 
indented  his  brow,  rising  from  the  commencement  of 
his  nose  towards  the  centre  of  the  forehead.  And  he 
knew  it  was  his  brooding  thought,  his  fierce,  hard 
determination,  his  intense  concentrativeness  for  so 
many  months,  that  had  been  digging  that  furrow ; 
and  it  must  prove  indeed  a  potent  specific  of  the  life- 
water  that  would  smooth  that  away,  and  restore  him 
all  the  youth  and  elasticity  that  he  had  buried  in  that 
profound  grave. 

But  why  was  he  so  pale  1  He  could  have  supposed 
himself  startled  by  some  ghastly  thing  that  he  had 
just  seen ;  by  a  corpse  in  the  next  room,  for  in 
stance  ;  or  else  by  the  foreboding  that  one  would 
soon  be  there ;  but  yet  he  was  conscious  of  no 
tremor  in  his  frame,  no  terror  in  his  heart ;  as  why 
should  there  be  any?  Feeling  his  own  pulse,  he 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  HI 

found  the  strong,  regular  beat  that  should  be  there. 
He  was  not  ill,  nor  affrighted ;  not  expectant  of  any 
pain.  Then  why  so  ghastly  pale  1  And  why,  more 
over,  Septimius,  did  you  listen  so  earnestly  for  any 
sound  in  Aunt  Keziah's  chamber  1  Why  did  you 
creep  on  tiptoe,  once,  twice,  three  times,  up  to  the 
old  woman's  chamber,  and  put  your  ear  to  the  key 
hole,  and  listen  breathlessly  ?  Well ;  it  must  have 
been  that  he  was  sub-conscious  tha-t  he  was  trying  a 
bold  experiment,  and  that  he  had  taken  this  poor 
old  woman  to  be  the  medium  of  it,  in  the  hope,  of 
course,  that  it  would  turn  out  well;  yet  with  other 
views  than  her  interest  in  the  matter.  What  was 
the  harm  of  that  1  Medical  men,  no  doubt,  are 
always  doing  so,  and  he  was  a  medical  man  for  the 
time.  Then  why  was  he  so  pale  1 

He  sat  down  and  fell  into  a  revery,  which  perhaps 
was  partly  suggested  by  that  chief  furrow  which  he 
had  seen,  and  which  we  have  spoken  of,  in  his  brow. 
He  considered  whether  there  was  anything  in  this 
pursuit  of  his  that  used  up  life  particularly  fast ;  so 
that  perhaps,  unless  he  were  successful  soon,  he 
should  be  incapable  of  renewal ;  for,  looking  within 
himself,  and  considering  his  mode  of  being,  he  had 
a  singular  fancy  that  his  heart  was  gradually  drying 
up,  and  that  he  must  continue  to  get  some  moisture 
for  it,  or  else  it  would  soon  be  like  a  withered  leaf. 
Supposing  his  pursuit  were  vain,  what  a  waste  he  was 
making  of  that  little  treasure  of  golden  days,  which 
was  his  all !  Could  this  be  called  life,  which  he  was 
leading  now  1  How  unlike  that  of  other  young  men  ! 


14:2  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

How  unlike  that  of  Robert  Hagburn,  for  example^. 
There  had  come  news  yesterday  of  his  having  per 
formed  a  gallant  part  in  the  battle  of  Monmouth,  and 
being  promoted  to  be  a  captain  for  his  brave  conduct. 
Without  thinking  of  long  life,  he  really  lived  in  heroic 
actions  and  emotions ;  he  got  much  life  in  a  little,  and 
did  not  fear  to  sacrifice  a  lifetime  of  torpid  breaths,  if 
necessary,  to  the  ecstasy  of  a  glorious  death  ! 

[It  appears  from  a  written  sketch  by  the  author  of  this 
story,  that  he  changed  his  first  plan  of  making  Septimius 
and  Rose  lovers,  and  she  was  to  be  represented  as  his 
half-sister,  and  in  the  copy  for  publication  tJiis  alteration 
would  have  been  made.  —  ED.] 

And  then  Robert  loved,  too,  loved  his  sister  Rose, 
and  felt,  doubtless,  an  immortality  in  that  passion. 
Why  could  not  Septimius  love  too  1  It  was  for 
bidden  !  Well,  no  matter ;  whom  could  he  have 
loved*?  Who,  in  all  this  world,  would  have  been 
suited  to  his  secret,  brooding  heart,  that  he  could 
have  let  her  into  its  mysterious  chambers,  and  walked 
with  her  from  one  cavernous  gloom  to  another,  and 
said,  "  Here  are  my  treasures.  I  make  thee  mistress 
of  all  these ;  with  all  these  goods  I  thee  endow." 
And  then,  revealing  to  her  his  great  secret  and 
purpose  of  gaining  immortal  life,  have  said  :  "  This 
shall  be  thine,  too.  Thou  shalt  share  with  me. 
We  will  walk  along  the  endless  path  together,  and 
keep  one  another's  hearts  warm,  and  so  be  content  to 
live." 

Ah,  Septimius !  but  now  you  are  getting  beyond 
those  rules  of  yours,  which,  cold  as  they  are,  have 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  143 

been  drawn  out  of  a  subtle  philosophy,  and  might, 
were  it  possible  to  follow  them  out,  suffice  to  do  all 
that  you  ask  of  them ;  but  if  you  break  them,  you 
do  it  at  the  peril  of  your  earthly  immortality.  Each 
warmer  and  quicker  throb  of  the  heart  wears  away 
so  much  of  life.  The  passions,  the  affections,  are  a 
wine  not  to  be  indulged  in.  Love,  above  all,  being 
in  its  essence  an  immortal  thing,  cannot  be  long 
contained  in  an  earthly  body,  but  would  wear  it 
out  with  its  own  secret  power,  softly  invigorating 
as  it  seems.  You  must  be  cold,  therefore,  Septimius ; 
you  must  not  even  earnestly  and  passionately  desire 
this  immortality  that  seems  so  necessary  to  you. 
Else  the  very  wish  will  prevent  the  possibility  of  its 
fulfilment. 

By  and  by,  to  call  him  out  of  these  rhapsodies, 
came  Rose  home ;  and  finding  the  kitchen  hearth 
cold,  and  Aunt  Keziah  missing,  and  no  dinner  by 
the  fire,  which  was  smouldering,  —  nothing  but  the 
portentous  earthen  jug,  which  fumed,  and  sent  out 
long,  ill-flavored  sighs,  she  tapped  at  Septimius's  door, 
and  asked  him  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Aunt  Keziah  has  had  an  ill  turn,"  said  Septimius, 
"  and  has  gone  to  bed." 

"  Poor  auntie ! "  said  Rose,  with  her  quick  sym 
pathy.  "  I  will  this  moment  run  up  and  see  if  she 
needs  anything." 

"No,  Rose,"  said  Septimius,  "she  has  doubtless 
gone  to  sleep,  and  will  awake  as  well  as  usual.  It 
would  displease  her  much  were  you  to  miss  your 
afternoon  school;  so  you  had  better  set  the  table 


144  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

with  whatever  there  is  ]eft  of  yesterday's  dinner,  and 
leave  me  to  take  care  of  auntie." 

"Well,"  said  Rose,  "she  loves  you  best;  but  if 
she  be  really  ill,  I  shall  give  up  my  school  and  nurse 
her." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Septimius,  "she  will  be  about 
the  house  again  to-morrow." 

So  Rose  ate  her  frugal  dinner  (consisting  chiefly 
of  purslain,  and  some  other  garden  herbs,  which  her 
thrifty  aunt  had  prepared  for  boiling),  and  went 
away  as  usual  to  her  school;  for  Aunt  Keziah,  as 
aforesaid,  had  never  encouraged  the  tender  ministra 
tions  of  Rose,  whose  orderly,  womanly  character,  with 
its  well-defined  orb  of  daily  and  civilized  duties,  had 
always  appeared  to  strike  her  as  tame;  and  she 
once  said  to  her,  "You  are  no  squaw,  child,  and 
you  '11  never  make  a  witch."  Nor  would  she  even 
so  much  as  let  Rose  put  her  tea  to  steep,  or  do  any 
thing  whatever  for  herself  personally ;  though,  cer 
tainly,  she  was  not  backward  in  requiring  of  her  a 
due  share  of  labor  for  the  general  housekeeping. 

Septimius  was  sitting  in  his  room,  as  the  afternoon 
wore  away;  because,  for  some  reason  or  other,  or 
quite  as  likely,  for  no  reason  at  all,  he  did  not  air 
himself  and  his  thoughts,  as  usual,  on  the  hill;  so 
he  was  sitting  musing,  thinking,  looking  into  his 
mysterious  manuscript,  when  he  heard  Aunt  Keziah 
moving  in  the  chamber  above.  First  she  seemed  to 
rattle  a  chair ;  then  she  began  a  slow,  regular  beat 
with  the  stick  which  Septimius  had  left  by  her  bed 
side,  and  which  startled  him  strangely,  —  so  that, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  145 

indeed,  his  heart  beat  faster  than  the  five-and-seventy 
throbs  to  which  he  was  restricted  by  the  wise  rules 
that  he  had  digested.  So  he  ran  ^hastily  up  stairs, 
and  behold,  Aunt  Keziah  was  sitting  up  in  bed, 
looking  very  wild,  —  so  wild,  that  you  would  have 
thought  she  was  going  to  fly  up  chimney  the  next 
minute ;  her  gray  hair  all  dishevelled,  her  eyes  star 
ing,  her  hands  clutching  forward,  while  she  gave  a  sort 
of  howl,  what  with  pain  and  agitation. 

"  Seppy  !  Seppy  ! "  said  she,  "  Seppy,  my  darling  ! 
are  you  quite  sure  you  remember  how  to  make  that 
precious  drink  1 " 

"Quite  well,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  Septimius,  in 
wardly  much  alarmed  by  her  aspect,  but  preserving 
a  true  Indian  composure  of  outward  mien.  "  I  wrote 
it  down,  and  could  say  it  by  heart  besides.  Shall  I 
make  you  a  fresh  pot  of  it  ?  for  I  have  thrown  away 
the  other." 

"  That  was  well,  Seppy,"  said  the  poor  old  woman, 
"  for  there  is  something  wrong  about  it ;  but  I  want 
no  more,  for,  Seppy  dear,  I  am  going  fast  out  of 
this  world,  where  you  and  that  precious  drink  were 
my  only  treasures  and  comforts.  I  wanted  to  know 
if  you  remembered  the  recipe ;  it  is  all  I  have  to 
leave  you,  and  the  more  you  drink  of  it,  Seppy,  the 
better.  Only  see  to  make  it  right !  " 

"Dear  auntie,  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  said  Sep 
timius,  in  much  consternation,  but  still  calm.  "Let 
me  run  for  the  doctor,  —  for  the  neighbors  1  something 
must  be  done  ! " 

The  old  woman  contorted  herself  as  if  there  were 
7  .  j 


146  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

a  fearful  time  in  her  insides;  and  grinned,  and 
twisted  the  yellow  ugliness  of  her  face,  and  groaned, 
and  howled ;  and  yet  there  was  a  tough  and  fierce 
kind  of  endurance  with  which  she  fought  with  her 
anguish,  and  would  not  yield  to  it  a  jot,  though  she 
allowed  herself  the  relief  of  shrieking  savagely  at 
it,  —  much  more  like  a  defiance  than  a  cry  for  mercy. 

*'  No  doctor !  no  woman  !  "  said  she  ;  "  if  my  drink 
could  not  save  me,  what  would  a  doctor's  foolish 
pills  and  powders  do  ?  And  a  woman  !  If  old 
Martha  Denton,  the  witch,  were  alive,  I  would  be 
glad  to  see  her.  But  other  women !  Pah !  Ah ! 
Ai !  Oh  !  Phew  !  Ah,  Seppy,  what  a  mercy  it  would 
be  now  if  I  could  set  to  and  blaspheme  a  bit,  and 
shake  my  fist  at  the  sky !  But  I  'm  a  Christian 
woman,  Seppy,  —  a  Christian  woman  ! " 

"Shall  I  send  for  the  minister,  Aunt  Keziah?" 
asked  Septimius.  "  He  is  a  good  man,  and  a  wise  one." 

"No  minister  for  me,  Seppy,"  said  Aunt  Keziah, 
howling  as  if  somebody  were  choking  her.  "He 
may  be  a  good  man  and  a  wise  one,  but  he  's  not 
wise  enough  to  know  the  way  to  my  heart,  and 
never  a  man  as  was !  Eh,  Seppy,  I  'm  a  Christian 
woman,  but  I  'm  not  like  other  Christian  women ; 
and  I  'm  glad  I  'm  going  away  from  this  stupid 
world.  I  've  not  been  a  bad  woman,  and  I  deserve 
credit  for  it,  for  it  would  have  suited  me  a  great 
deal  better  to  be  bad.  0,  what  a  delightful  time  a 
witch  must  have  had,  starting  off  up  chimney  on  her 
broomstick  at  midnight,  and  looking  down  from 
aloft  in  the  sky  on  the  sleeping  village  far  below, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  147 

with  its  steeple  pointing  up  at  her,  so  that  she  might 
touch  the  golden  weathercock !  You,  meanwhile,  in 
such  an  ecstasy,  and  all  below  you  the  dull,  inno 
cent,  sober  humankind;  the  wife  sleeping  by  her 
husband,  or  mother  by  her  child,  squalling  with 
wind  in  its  stomach ;  the  goodman  driving  up  his 
cattle  and  his  plough,  —  all  so  innocent,  all  so  stupid, 
with  their  dull  days  just  alike,  one  after  another. 
And  you  up  in  the  air,  sweeping  away  to  some  nook 
in  the  forest !  Ha  !  What 's  that  1  A  wizard  !  Ha  ! 
ha !  Known  below  as  a  deacon !  There  is  Goody 
Chickering  !  How  quietly  she  sent  the  young  people 
to  bed  after  prayers !  There  is  an  Indian ;  there  a 
nigger ;  they  all  have  equal  rights  and  privileges  at  a 
witch-meeting.  Phew  !  the  wind  blows  cold  up  here  ! 
Why  does  not  the  Black  Man  have  the  meeting  at 
his  own  kitchen  hearth  1  Ho !  ho  !  0  dear  me ! 
But  I  'm  a  Christian  woman  and  no  witch ;  but  those 
must  have  been  gallant  times  !  " 

Doubtless  it  was  a  partial  wandering  of  the  mind 
that  took  the  poor  old  woman  away  on  this  old-witch 
flight ;  and  it  was  very  curious  and  pitiful  to  witness 
the  compunction  with  which  she  returned  to  herself 
and  took  herself  to  task  for  the  preference  which,  in 
her  wild  nature,  she  could  not  help  giving  to  harum- 
scarum  wickedness  over  tame  goodness.  Now  she 
tried  to  compose  herself,  and  talk  reasonably  and 
godly. 

"  Ah,  Septimius,  my  dear  child,  never  give  way  to 
temptation,  nor  consent  to  be  a  wizard,  though  the 
Black  Man  persuade  you  ever  so  hard.  I  know  he  will 


148  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

try.  He  has  tempted  me,  but  I  never  yielded,  never 
gave  him  his  will ;  and  never  do  you,  my  boy,  though 
you,  with  your  dark  complexion,  and  your  brooding 
brow,  and  your  eye  veiled,  only  when  it  suddenly  looks 
out  with  a  flash  of  fire  in  it,  are  the  sort  of  man  he 
seeks  most,  and  that  afterward  serves  him.  But  don't 
do  it,  Septimius.  But  if  you  could  be  an  Indian,  me- 
thinks  it  would  be  better  than  this  tame  life  we  lead. 
'T  would  have  been  better  for  me,  at  all  events.  0, 
how  pleasant  't  would  have  been  to  spend  my  life  wan 
dering  in  the  woods,  smelling  the  pines  and  the  hemlock 
all  day,  and  fresh  things  of  all  kinds,  and  no  kitchen 
work  to  do,  —  not  to  rake  up  the  fire,  nor  sweep  the 
room,  nor  make  the  beds,  —  but  to  sleep  on  fresh 
boughs  in  a  wigwam,  with  the  leaves  still  on  the 
branches  that  made  the  roof!  And  then  to  see  the 
deer  brought  in  by  the  red  hunter,  and  the  blood 
streaming  from  the  arrow-dart !  Ah  !  and  the  fight 
too !  and  the  scalping  !  and,  perhaps,  a  woman  might 
creep  into  the  battle,  and  steal  the  wounded  enemy 
away  of  her  tribe  and  scalp  him,  and  be  praised  for  it ! 
0  Seppy,  how  I  hate  the  thought  of  the  dull  life 
women  lead !  A  white  woman's  life  is  so  dull ! 
Thank  Heaven,  I  'm  done  with  it !  If  I  'm  ever 
to  live  again,  may  I  be  whole  Indian,  please  my 
Maker ! " 

After  this  goodly  outburst,  Aunt  Keziah  lay  quietly 
for  a  few  moments,  and  her  skinny  claws  being  clasped 
together,  and  her  yellow  visage  grinning,  as  pious 
an  aspect  as  was  attainable  try  her  harsh  and  pain- 
distorted  features,  Septimius  perceived  that  she  was 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  149 

in  prayer.  And  so  it  proved  by  what  followed,  for 
the  old  woman  turned  to  him  with  a  grim  tenderness 
on  her  face,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  be  taken 
in  his  own.  He  clasped  the  bony  talon  in  both  his 
hands. 

"  Seppy,  my  dear,  I  feel  a  great  peace,  and  I  don't 
think  there  is  so  very  much  to  trouble  me  in  the 
other  world.  It  won't  be  all  house-work,  and  keeping 
decent,  and  doing  like  other  people  there.  I  suppose  I 
need  n't  expect  to  ride  on  a  broomstick,  —  that  would 
be  wrong  in  any  kind  of  a  world,  —  but  there  may  be 
woods  to  wander  in,  and  a  pipe  to  smoke  in  the  air  of 
heaven ;  trees  to  hear  the  wind  in,  and  to  smell  of, 
and  all  such  natural,  happy  things  ;  and  by  and  by  I 
shall  hope  to  see  you  there,  Seppy,  my  darling  boy  ! 
Come  by  and  by ;  't  is  n't  worth  your  while  to  live 
forever,  even  if  you  should  find  out  what 's  want 
ing  in  the  drink  I  've  taught  you.  I  can  see  a  little 
way  into  the  next  world  now,  and  I  see  it  to  be  far 
better  than  this  heavy  and  wretched  old  place. 
You  '11  die  when  your  time  comes  ;  won't  you,  Seppy, 
my  darling  1 " 

"  Yes,  dear  auntie,  when  my  time  comes,"  said 
Septimius.  "Very  likely  I  shall  want  to  live  no 
longer  by  that  time." 

"Likely  not,"  said  the  old  woman.  "I'm  sure  I 
don't.  It  is  like  going  to  sleep  on  my  mother's  breast 
to  die.  So  good  night,  dear  Seppy  !  " 

"  Good  night,  and  God  bless  you,  aunty !  "  said 
Septimius,  with  a  gush  of  tears  blinding  him,  spite  of 
his  Indian  nature. 


150  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

The  old  woman  composed  herself,  and  lay  quite  still 
and  decorous  for  a  short  time  ;  then,  rousing  herself  a 
little,  "  Septimius,"  said  she,  "  is  there  just  a  little 
drop  of  my  drink  left  ?  Not  that  I  want  to  live  any 
longer,  but  if  I  could  sip  ever  so  little,  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  step  into  the  other  world  quite  cheery,  with  it 
warm  in  my  heart,  and  not  feel  shy  and  bashful  at 
going  among  strangers." 

"  Not  one  drop,  auntie." 

"  Ah,  well,  no  matter  !  It  was  not  quite  right,  that 
last  cup.  It  had  a  queer  taste.  What  could  you 
have  put  into  it,  Seppy,  darling  ?  But  no  matter,  no 
matter !  It 's  a  precious  stuff,  if  you  make  it  right. 
Don't  forget  the  herbs,  Septimius.  Something  wrong 
had  certainly  got  into  it." 

These,  except  for  some  murmurings,  some  groanings 
and  unintelligible  whisperings,  were  the  last  utter 
ances  of  poor  Aunt  Keziah,  who  did  not  live  a  great 
while  longer,  and  at  last  passed  away  in  a  great  sigh, 
like  a  gust  of  wind  among  the  trees,  she  having  just 
before  stretched  out  her  hand  again  and  grasped  that 
of  Septimius ;  and  he  sat  watching  her  and  gazing 
at  her,  wondering,  and  horrified,  touched,  shocked  by 
death,  of  which  he  had  so  unusual  a  terror,  —  and  by 
the  death  of  this  creature  especially,  with  whom  he 
felt  a  sympathy  that  did  not  exist  with  any  other  per 
son  now  living.  So  long  did  he  sit,  holding  her  hand, 
that  at  last  he  was  conscious  that  it  was  growing  cold 
within  his  own,  and  that  the  stiffening  fingers  clutched 
him,  as  if  they  were  disposed  to  keep  their  hold,  and 
not  forego  the  tie  that  had  been  so  peculiar. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  151 

Then  rushing  hastily  forth,  he  told  the  nearest 
available  neighbor,  who  was  Robert  Hagburn's  moth 
er  ;  and  she  summoned  some  of  her  gossips,  and  came 
to  the  house,  and  took  poor  Aunt  Keziah  in  charge. 
They  talked  of  her  with  no  great  respect,  I  fear,  nor 
much  sorrow,  nor  sense  that  the  community  would 
suffer  any  great  deprivation  in  her  loss  ;  for,  in  their 
view,  she  was  a  dram-drinking,  pipe-smoking,  cross- 
grained  old  maid,  and,  as  some  thought,  a  witch; 
and,  at  any  rate,  with  too  much  of  the  Indian  blood  in 
her  to  be  of  much  use  ;  and  they  hoped  that  now  Rose 
Garfield  would  have  a  pleasanter  life,  and  Septimius 
study  to  be  a  minister,  and  all  things  go  well,  and  the 
place  be  cheerfuller.  They  found  Aunt  Keziah's  bot 
tle  in  the  cupboard,  and  tasted  and  smelt  of  it. 

"  Good  West  Indjy  as  ever  I  tasted,"  said  Mrs. 
Hagburn  ;  "  and  there  stands  her  broken  pitcher,  on 
the  hearth.  Ah,  empty !  I  never  could  bring  my 
mind  to  taste  it ;  but  now  I  'm  sorry  I  never  did,  for 
I  suppose  nobody  in  the  world  can  make  any  more 
of  it." 

Septimius,  meanwhile,  had  betaken  himself  to  the 
hill-top,  which  was  his  place  of  refuge  on  all  occa 
sions  when  the  house  seemed  too  stifled  to  contain 
him ;  and  there  he  walked  to  and  fro,  with  a  certain 
kind  of  calmness  and  indifference  that  he  wondered 
at ;  for  there  is  hardly  anything  in  this  world  so 
strange  as  the  quiet  surface  that  spreads  over  a 
man's  mind  in  his  greatest  emergencies;  so  that  he 
deems  himself  perfectly  quiet,  and  upbraids  himself 
with  not  feeling  anything,  when  indeed  he  is  passion- 


152  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

stirred.  As  Septimius  walked  to  and  fro,  he  looked 
at  the  rich  crimson  flowers,  which  seemed  to  be 
blooming  in  greater  profusion  and  luxuriance  than 
ever  before.  He  had  made  an  experiment  with  these 
flowers,  and  he  was  curious  to  know  whether  that 
experiment  had  been  the  cause  of  Aunt  Keziah's 
death.  Not  that  he  felt  any  remorse  therefor,  in 
any  case,  or  believed  himself  to  have  committed  a 
crime,  having  really  intended  and  desired  nothing 
but  good.  I  suppose  such  things  (and  he  must  be 
a  lucky  physician,  methinks,  who  has  no  such  mis 
chief  within  his  own  experience)  never  weigh  with 
deadly  weight  on  any  man's  conscience.  Something 
must  be  risked  in  the  cause  of  science,  and  in  des 
perate  cases  something  must  be  risked  for  the  patient's 
self.  Septimius,  much  as  he  loved  life,  would  not 
have  hesitated  to  put  his  own  life  to  the  same  risk 
that  he  had  imposed  on  Aunt  Keziah ;  or  if  he  did 
hesitate,  it  would  have  been  only  because,  if  the 
experiment  turned  out  disastrously  in  his  own  person, 
he  would  not  be  in  a  position  to  make  another  and 
more  successful  trial;  whereas,  by  trying  it  on  oth 
ers,  the  man  of  science  still  reserves  himself  for  new 
efforts,  and  does  not  put  all  the  hopes  of  the  world, 
so  far  as  involved  in  his  success,  on  one  cast  of 
the  die. 

By  and  by  he  met  Sybil  Dacy,  who  had  ascended 
the  hill,  as  was  usual  with  her,  at  sunset,  and  came 
towards  him,  gazing  earnestly  in  his  face. 

"  They  tell  me  poor  Aunt  Keziah  is  no  more,"  said 
she. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  153 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  Septimius. 

"  The  flower  is  a  very  famous  medicine,"  said  the 
girl,  "  but  everything  depends  on  its  being  applied  in 
the  proper  way." 

"Do  you  know  the  way,  then1?"  asked  Septim 
ius. 

"No;  you  should  ask  Doctor  Portsoaken  about 
that,"  said  Sybil. 

Doctor  Portsoaken!  And  so  he  should  consult 
him.  That  eminent  chymist  and  scientific  man  had 
evidently  heard  of  the  recipe,  and  at  all  events  would 
be  acquainted  with  the  best  methods  of  getting  the 
virtues  out  of  flowers  and  herbs,  some  of  which, 
Septimius  had  read  enough  to  know,  were  poison  in 
one  phase  and  shape  of  preparation,  and  possessed  of 
richest  virtues  in  others;  their  poison,  as  one  may 
say,  serving  as  a  dark  and  terrible  safeguard,  which 
Providence  has  set  to  watch  over  their  preciousness ; 
even  as  a  dragon,  or  some  wild  and  fiendish  spectre, 
is  set  to  watch  and  keep  hidden  gold  and  heaped-up 
diamonds.  A  dragon  always  waits  on  everything  that 
is  very  good.  And  what  would  deserve  the  watch 
and  ward  of  danger  of  a  dragon,  or  something  more 
fatal  than  a  dragon,  if  not  this  treasure  of  which 
Septimius  was  in  quest,  and  the  discovery  and  pos~ 
session  of  which  would  enable  him  to  break  down  one 
of  the  strongest  barriers  of  nature  1  It  ought  to  be 
death,  he  acknowledged  it,  to  attempt  such  a  thing ; 
for  how  changed  would  be  life  if  he  should  succeed ; 
how  necessary  it  was  that  mankind  should  be  de 
fended  from  such  attempts  on  the  general  rule  on 


154  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

the  part  of  all  but  him.  How  could  Death  be 
spared  1  —  then  the  sire  would  live  forever,  and  the 
heir  never  come  to  his  inheritance,  and  so  he  would 
at  once  hate  his  own  father,  from  the  perception 
that  he  would  never  be  out  of  his  way.  Then  the 
same  class  of  powerful  minds  would  always  rule  the 
state,  and  there  would  never  be  a  change  of  policy. 
[Here  several  pages  are  missing.  —  ED.] 

Through .  such  scenes  Septimius  sought  out  the 
direction  that  Doctor  Portsoaken  had  given  him,  and 
came  to  the  door  of  a  house  in  the  olden  part  of 
the  town.  The  Boston  of  those  days  had  very  much 
the  aspect  of  provincial  towns  in  England,  such  as 
may  still  be  seen  there,  while  our  own  city  has  under 
gone  such  wonderful  changes  that  little  likeness  to 
what  our  ancestors  made  it  can  now  be  found.  The 
streets,  crooked  and  narrow;  the  houses,  many- 
gabled,  projecting,  with  latticed  windows  and  dia 
mond  panes ;  without  sidewalks ;  with  rough  pave 
ments. 

Septimius  knocked  loudly  at  the  door,  nor  had 
long  to  wait  before  a  serving-maid  appeared,  who 
seemed  to  be  of  English  nativity ;  and  in  reply  to 
his  request  for  Doctor  Portsoaken  bade  him  come  in, 
and  led  him  up  a  staircase  with  broad  landing- 
places  ;  then  tapped  at  the  door  of  a  room,  and  was 
responded  to  by  a  gruff  voice  saying,  "  Come  in ! " 
The  woman  held  the  door  open,  and  Septimius  saw 
the  veritable  Doctor  Portsoaken  in  an  old,  faded 
morning-gown,  and  with  a  nightcap  on  his  head,  his 


SEPIIMIUS  FELTON.  155 

German  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a  brandy  bottle,  to 
the  best  of  our  belief,  on  the  table  by  his  side. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  said  the  gruff  doctor,  nodding 
to  Septimius.  "I  remember  you.  Come  in,  man, 
and  tell  me  your  business." 

Septimius  did  come  in,  but  was  so  struck  by  the 
aspect  of  Doctor  Portsoaken's  apartment,  and  his 
gown,  that  he  did  not  immediately  tell  his  business. 
In  the  first  place,  everything  looked  very  dusty  and 
dirty,  so  that  evidently  no  woman  had  ever  been 
admitted  into  this  sanctity  of  a  place ;  a  fact  made 
all  the  more  evident  by  the  abundance  of  spiders, 
who  had  spun  their  webs  about  the  walls  and  ceiling 
in  the  wildest  apparent  confusion,  though  doubtless 
each  individual  spider  knew  the  cordage  which  he 
had  lengthened  out  of  his  own  miraculous  bowels. 
But  it  was  really  strange.  They  had  festooned  their 
cordage  on  whatever  was  stationary  in  the  room, 
making  a  sort  of  gray,  dusky  tapestry,  that  waved 
portentously  in  the  breeze,  and  napped,  heavy  and 
dismal,  each  with  its  spider  in  the  centre  of  his 
own  system.  And  what  was  most  marvellous  was 
a  spider  over  the  doctor's  head;  a  spider,  I  think 
of  some  South  American  breed,  with  a  circumference 
of  its  many  legs  as  big,  unless  I  am  misinformed, 
as  a  teacup,  and  with  a  body  in  the  midst  as  large 
as  a  dollar;  giving  the  spectator  horrible  qualms  as 
to  what  would  be  the  consequence  if  this  spider 
should  be  crushed,  and,  at  the  same  time,  suggesting 
the  poisonous  danger  of  suffering  such  a  monster  to 
live.  The  monster,  however,  sat  in  the  midst  of 


156  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

the  stalwart  cordage  of  his  web,  right  over  the  doc 
tor's  head ;  and  he  looked,  with  all  those  compli 
cated  lines,  like  the  symbol  of  a  conjurer  or  crafty 
politician  in  the  midst  of  the  complexity  of  his 
scheme ;  and  Septimius  wondered  if  he  were  not 
the  type  of  Doctor  Portsoaken  himself,  who,  fat  and 
bloated  as  the  spider,  seemed  to  be  the  centre  of 
some  dark  contrivance.  And  could  it  be  that  poor 
Septimius  was  typified  by  the  fascinated  fly,  doomed 
to  be  entangled  by  the  web? 

"  Good  day  to  you,"  said  the  gruff  doctor,  taking 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "Here  I  am,  with  my 
brother  spiders,  in  the  midst  of  my  web.  I  told 
you,  you  remember,  the  wonderful  efficacy  which  I 
had  discovered  in  spiders'  webs ;  and  this  is  my 
laboratory,  where  I  have  hundreds  of  workmen  con 
cocting  my  panacea  for  me.  Is  it  not  a  lovely 
sight  ? " 

"  A  wonderful  one,  at  least,"  said  Septimius. 
"That  one  above  your  head,  the  monster,  is  calcu 
lated  to  give  a  very  favorable  idea  of  your  theory. 
What  a  quantity  of  poison  there  must  be  in  him  ! " 

"  Poison,  do  you  call  it  1 "  quoth  the  grim  doctor. 
"  That 's  entirely  as  it  may  be  used.  Doubtless  his 
bite  would  send  a  man  to  kingdom  come  ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  no  one  need  want  a  better  life-line 
than  that  fellow's  web.  He  and  I  are  firm  friends, 
and  I  believe  he  would  know  my  enemies  by  instinct. 
But  come,  sit  down,  and  take  a  glass  of  brandy. 
No]  Well,  I'll  drink  it  for  you.  And  how  is  the 
old  aunt  yonder,  with  her  infernal  nostrum,  the  bitter- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  157 

ness  and  nauseousness  of  which  my  poor  stomach  has 
not  yet  forgotten  1 " 

"  My  Aunt  Keziah  is  no  more,"  said  Septimius. 

"  No  more  !  Well,  I  trust  in  heaven  she  has  carried 
her  secret  with  her,"  said  the  doctor.  "  If  anything 
could  comfort  you  for  her  loss,  it  would  be  that.  But 
what  brings  you  to  Boston  ? " 

"  Only  a  dried  flower  or  two,"  said  Septimius,  pro 
ducing  some  specimens  of  the  strange  growth  of  the 
grave.  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  them." 

The  naturalist  took  the  flowers  in  his  hand,  one  of 
which  had  the  root  appended,  and  examined  them 
with  great  minuteness  and^  some  surprise;  two  or 
three  times  looking  in  Septimius's  face  with  a  puzzled 
and  inquiring  air ;  then  examined  them  again. 

"Do  you  tell  me,"  said  he,  "that  the  plant  has 
been  found  indigenous  in  this  country,  and  in  your 
part  of  it  ]  And  in  what  locality  1 " 

"  Indigenous,  so  far  as  I  know,"  answered  Septimius. 
"  As  to  the  locality,"  -—  he  hesitated  a  little,  —  "  it  is 
on  a  small  hillock,  scarcely  bigger  than  a  molehill,  on 
the  hill-top  behind  my  house." 

The  naturalist  looked  steadfastly  at  him  with  red, 
burning  eyes,  under  his  deep,  impending,  shaggy 
brows ;  then  again  at  the  flower. 

"  Flower,  do  you  call  it  ]  "  said  he,  after  a  re-exami 
nation.  "  This  is  no  flower,  though  it  so  closely  resem 
bles  one,  and  a  beautiful  one,  —  yes,  most  beautiful. 
But  it  is  no  flower.  It  is  a  certain  very  rare  fungus, 
—  so  rare  as  almost  to  be  thought  fabulous ;  and 
there  are  the  strangest  superstitions,  coming  down 


158  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

from  ancient  times,  as  to  the  mode  of  production. 
What  sort  of  manure  had  been  put  into  that  hillock  ? 
Was  it  merely  dried  leaves,  the  refuse  of  the  forest,  or 
something  else  ] " 

Septimius  hesitated  a  little  ;  but  there  was  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  disclose  the  truth,  —  as  much  of  it 
as  Doctor  Portsoaken  cared  to  know. 

"  The  hillock  where  it  grew,"  answered  he,  "  was  a 
grave." 

"  A  grave  !  Strange  !  strange  !  "  quoth  Doctor 
Portsoaken.  "  Now  these  old  superstitions  sometimes 
prove  to  have  a  germ  of  truth  in  them,  which  some 
philosopher  has  doubtless  long  ago,  in  forgotten 
ages,  discovered  and  made  known ;  but  in  process 
of  time  his  learned  memory  passes  away,  but  the 
truth,  undiscovered,  survives  him,  and  the  people 
get  hold  of  it,  and  make  it  the  nucleus  of  all  sorts  of 
folly.  So  it  grew  out  of  a  grave  !  Yes,  yes ;  and 
probably  it  would  have  grown  out  of  any  other  dead 
flesh,  as  well  as  that  of  a  human  being ;  a  dog  would 
have  answered  the  purpose  as  well  as  a  man.  You 
must  know  that  the  seeds  of  fungi  are  scattered  so 
universally  over  the  world  that,  only  comply  with  the 
conditions,  and  you  will  produce  them  everywhere. 
Prepare  the  bed  it  loves,  and  a  mushroom  will  spring 
up  spontaneously,  an  excellent  food,  like  manna  from 
heaven.  So  superstition  says,  kill  your  deadliest  ene 
my,  and  plant  him,  and  he  will  come  up  in  a  delicious 
fungus,  which  I  presume  to  be  this ;  steep  him,  or 
distil  him,  and  he  will  make  an  elixir  of  life  for  you.  I 
suppose  there  is  some  foolish  symbolism  or  other  about 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  159 

the  matter;  but  the  fact  I  affirm  to  be  nonsense. 
Dead  flesh  under  some  certain  conditions  of  rain  and 
sunshine,  not  at  present  ascertained  by  science,  will 
produce  the  fungus,  whether  the  manure  be  friend,  or 
foe,  or  cattle." 

"  And  as  to  its  medical  efficacy  1 "  asked  Septimius. 

"  That  may  be  great  for  aught  I  know,"  said  Port- 
soaken  ;  "  but  I  am  content  with  my  cobwebs.  You 
may  seek  it  out  for  yourself.  But  if  the  poor  fellow 
lost  his  life  in  the  supposition  that  he  might  be  a  use 
ful  ingredient  in  a  recipe,  you  are  rather  an  unscrupu 
lous  practitioner." 

"  The  person  whose  mortal  relics  fill  that  grave," 
said  Septimius,  "  was  no  enemy  of  mine  (no  private 
enemy,  I  mean,  though  he  stood  among  the  enemies 
of  my  country),  nor  had  I  anything  to  gain  by  his 
death.  I  strove  to  avoid  aiming  at  his  life,  but  he 
compelled  me." 

"  Many  a  chance  shot  brings  down  the  bird,"  said 
Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  You  say  you  had  no  interest  in 
his  death.  We  shall  see  that  in  the  end." 

Septimius  did  not  try  to  follow  the  conversation 
among  the  mysterious  hints  with  which  the  doctor 
chose  to  involve  it ;  but  he  now  sought  to  gain  some 
information  from  him  as  to  the  mode  of  preparing 
the  recipe,  and  whether  he  thought  it  would  be  most 
efficacious  as  a  decoction,  or  as  a  distillation.  The 
learned  chemist  supported  most  decidedly  the  latter 
opinion,  and  showed  Septimius  how  he  might  make  for 
himself  a  simpler  apparatus,  with  no  better  aids  than 
Aunt  Keziah's  teakettle,  and  one  or  two  trifling  things, 


160  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

which  the  doctor  himself  supplied,  by  which  all  might 
be  done  with  every  necessary  scrupulousness. 

"  Let  me  look  again  at  the  formula,"  said  he* 
"  There  are  a  good  many  minute  directions  that 
appear  trifling,  but  it  is  not  safe  to  neglect  any 
minutiae  in  the  preparation  of  an  affair  like  this ; 
because,  as  it  is  all  mysterious  and  unknown  ground 
together,  we  cannot  tell  which  may  be  the  important 
and  efficacious  part.  For  instance,  when  all  else  is 
done,  the  recipe  is  to  be  exposed  seven  days  to  the 
sun  at  noon.  That  does  not  look  very  important,  but 
it  may  be.  Then  again,  'Steep  it  in  moonlight  dur 
ing  the  second  quarter.'  That 's  all  moonshine,  one 
would  think  ;  but  there  's  no  saying.  It  is  singular, 
with  such  preciseness,  that  no  distinct  directions  are 
given  whether  to  infuse,  decoct,  distil,  or  what  other 
way  ;  but  my  advice  is  to  distil." 

"  I  will  do  it,"  said  Septimius,  "  and  not  a  direction 
shall  be  neglected." 

"I  shall  be  curious  to  know  the  result,"  said 
Doctor  Portsoaken,  "  and  am  glad  to  see  the  zeal 
with  which  you  enter  into  the  matter.  A  very 
valuable  medicine  may  be  recovered  to  science 
through  your  agency,  and  you  may  make  your  for 
tune  by  it ;  though,  for  my  part,  I  prefer  to  trust  to 
my  cobwebs.  This  spider,  now,  is  not  he  a  lovely 
object]  See,  he  is  quite  capable  of  knowledge  and 
affection." 

There  seemed,  in  fact,  to  be  some  mode  of  commu 
nication  between  the  doctor  and  his  spider,  for  on 
some  sign  given  by  the  former,  imperceptible  to 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  161 

Septimius,  the  many-legged  monster  let  himself  down 
by  a  cord,  which  he  extemporized  out  of  his  own 
bowels,  and  came  dangling  his  huge  bulk  down  before 
his  master's  face,  while  the  latter  lavished  many 
epithets  of  endearment  upon  him,  ludicrous,  and  not 
without  horror,  as  applied  to  such  a  hideous  produc 
tion  of  nature. 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Doctor  Portsoaken,  "  I  run 
some  risk  from  my  intimacy  with  this  lovely  jewel, 
and  if  I  behave  not  all  the  more  prudently,  your 
countrymen  will  hang  me  for  a  wizard,  and  annihi 
late  this  precious  spider  as  my  familiar.  There 
would  be  a  loss  to  the  world  j  not  small  in  my  own 
case,  but  enormous  in  the  case  of  the  spider.  Loot 
at  him  now,  and  see  if  the  mere  uninstructed  obser 
vation  does  not  discover  a  wonderful  value  in  him." 

In  truth,  when  looked  at  closely,  the  spider  really 
showed  that  a  care  and  art  had  been  bestowed  upon 
his  make,  not  merely  as  regards  curiosity,  but  abso 
lute  beauty,  that  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  must  be 
a  rather  distinguished  creature  in  the  view  of  Provi 
dence  ;  so  variegated  was  he  with  a  thousand  minute 
spots,  spots  of  color,  glorious  radiance,  and  such  a 
brilliance  was  attained  by  many  conglomerated  bril 
liancies;  and  it  was  very  strange  that  all  this  care 
was  bestowed  on  a  creature  that,  probably,  had  never 
been  carefully  considered  except  by  the  two  pair  of 
eyes  that  were  now  upon  it ;  and  that,  in  spite  of  its 
beauty  and  magnificence,  could  only  be  looked  at 
with  an  effort  to  overcome  the  mysterious  repulsive- 
ness  of  its  presence ;  for  all  the  time  that  Septimius 


162  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

looked  and  admired,  he  still  hated  the  thing,  and 
thought  it  wrong  that  it  was  ever  born,  and  wished 
that  it  could  be  annihilated.  Whether  the  spider  was 
conscious  of  the  wish,  we  are  unable  to  say ;  but  cer 
tainly  Septimius  felt  as  if  he  were  hostile  to  him, 
and  had  a  mind  to  sting  him;  and,  in  faot,  Doctor 
Portsoaken  seemed  of  the  same  opinion. 

"  Aha,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  would  advise  you 
not  to  come  too  near  Orontes !  He  is  a  lovely  beast, 
it  is  true;  but  in  a  certain  recess  of  this  splendid 
form  of  his  he  keeps  a  modest  supply  of  a  certain 
potent  and  piercing  poison,  which  would  produce  a 
wonderful  effect  on  any  flesh  to  which  he  chose  to 
apply  it.  A  powerful  fellow  is  Orontes ;  and  he  has 
a  great  sense  of  his  own  dignity  and  importance,  and 
will  not  allow  it  to  be  imposed  on." 

Septimius  moved  from  the  vicinity  of  the  spider, 
who,  in  fact,  retreated,  by  climbing  up  his  cord,  and 
ensconced  himself  in  the  middle  of  his  web,  where 
he  remained  waiting  for  his  prey.  Septimius  won 
dered  whether  the  doctor  were  symbolized  by  the 
spider,  and  was  likewise  waiting  in  the  middle  of  his 
web  for  his  prey.  As  he  saw  no  way,  however,  in 
which  the  doctor  could  make  a  profit  out  of  himself, 
or  how  he  could  be  victimized,  the  thought  did  not 
much  disturb  his  equanimity.  He  was  about  to  take 
his  leave,  but  the  doctor,  in  a  derisive  kind  of  way, 
bade  him  sit  still,  for  he  purposed  keeping  him  as 
a  guest,  that  night,  at  least. 

"  I  owe  you  a  dinner,"  said  he,  "  and  will  pay  it 
with  a  supper  and  knowledge;  and  before  we  part 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  163 

I  have  certain  inquiries  to  make,  of  which  you  may 
not  at  first  see  the  object,  but  yet  are  not  quite  pur 
poseless.  My  familiar,  up  aloft  there,  has  whispered 
me  something  about  you,  and  I  rely  greatly  on  his 
intimations." 

Septirnius,  who  was  sufficiently  common-sensible, 
and  invulnerable  to  superstitious  influences  on  every 
point  except  that  to  which  he  had  surrendered  himself, 
was  easily  prevailed  upon  to  stay ;  for  he  found  the  sin 
gular,  charlatanic,  mysterious  lore  of  the  man  curious, 
and  he  had  enough  of  real  science  to  at  least  make 
him  an  object  of  interest  to  one  who  knew  nothing 
of  the  matter;  and  Septimius's  acuteness,  too,  was 
piqued  in  trying  to  make  out  what  manner  of  man  he 
really  was,  and  how  much  in  him  was  genuine  science 
and  self-belief,  and  how  much  quackery  and  preten 
sion  and  conscious  empiricism.  So  he  stayed,  and 
supped  with  the  doctor  at  a  table  heaped  more  bounti 
fully,  and  with  rarer  dainties,  than  Septimius  had 
ever  before  conceived  of;  and  in  his  simpler  cogni 
zance,  heretofore,  of  eating  merely  to  live,  he  could  not 
but  wonder  to  see  a  man  of  thought  caring  to  eat  of 
more  than  one  dish,  so  that  most  of  the  meal,  on  his 
part,  was  spent  in  seeing  the  doctor  feed  and  hearing 
him  discourse  upon  his  food. 

"  If  man  lived  only  to  eat,"  quoth  the  doctor, 
"  one  life  would  not  suffice,  not  merely  to  exhaust  the 
pleasure  of  it,  but  even  to  get  the  rudiments  of  it." 

When  this  important  business  was  over,  the  doctor 
and  his  guest  sat  down  again  in  his  laboratory,  where 
the  former  took  care  to  have  his  usual  companion,  the 


164  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

black  bottle,  at  his  elbow,  and  filled  his  pipe,  and 
seemed  to  feel  a  certain  sullen,  genial,  fierce,  brutal, 
kindly  mood  enough,  and  looked  at  Septimius  with  a 
sort  of  friendship,  as  if  he  had  as  lief  shake  hands  with 
him  as  knock  him  down. 

"  Now  for  a  talk  about  business,"  said  he.    • 

Septimius  thought,  however,  that  the  doctor's  talk 
began,  at  least,  at  a  sufficient  remoteness  from  any 
practical  business ;  for  he  began  to  question  about  his 
remote  ancestry,  what  he  knew,  or  what  record  had 
been  preserved,  of  the  first  emigrant  from  England; 
whence,  from  what  shire  or  part  of  England,  that 
ancestor  had  come  ;  whether  there  were  any  memorial 
of  any  kind  remaining  of  him,  any  letters,  or  written 
documents,  wills,  deeds,  or  other  legal  papers ;  in 
short,  all  about  him. 

Septimius  could  not  satisfactorily  see  whether  these 
inquiries  were  made  with  any  definite  purpose,  or 
from  a  mere  general  curiosity  to  discover  how  a 
family  of  early  settlement  in  America  might  still  be 
linked  with  the  old  country;  whether  there  were 
any  tendrils  stretching  across  the  gulf  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years,  by  which  the  American  branch  of 
the  family  was  separated  from  the  trunk  of  the  family 
tree  in  England.  The  doctor  partly  explained  this. 

"You  must  know,"  said  he,  "that  the  name  you 
bear,  Felton,  is  one  formerly  of  much  eminence  and 
repute  in  my  part  of  England,  and,  indeed,  very 
recently  possessed  of  wealth  and  station.  I  should 
like  to  know  if  you  are  of  that  race." 

Septimius  answered  with  such  facts  and  traditions 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  165 

» 

as  had  come  to  his  knowledge  respecting  his  family 
history;  a  sort  of  history  that  is  quite  as  liable  to 
be  mythical,  in  its  early  and  distant  stages,  as  that 
of  Rome,  and,  indeed,  seldom  goes  three  or  four 
generations  back  without  getting  into  a  mist  really 
impenetrable,  though  great,  gloomy,  and  magnificent 
shapes  of  men  often  seem  to  loom  in  it,  who,  if  they 
could  be  brought  close  to  the  naked  eye,  would  turn 
out  as  commonplace  as  the  descendants  who  wonder 
at  and  admire  them.  He  remembered  Aunt  Keziah's 
legend,  and  said  he  had  reason  to  believe  that 
his  first  ancestor  came  over  at  a  somewhat  earlier 
date  than  the  first  Puritan  settlers,  and  dwelt  among 
the  Indians,  where  (and  here  the  young  man  cast 
down  his  eyes,  having  the  customary  American  ab 
horrence  for  any  mixture  of  blood)  he  had  inter 
married  with  the  daughter  of  a  sagamore,  and  suc 
ceeded  to  his  rule.  This  might  have  happened  as 
early  as  the  end  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  perhaps  later. 
It  was  impossible  to  decide  dates  on  such  a  matter. 
There  had  been  a  son  of  this  connection,  perhaps 
more  than  one,  but  certainly  one  son,  who,  on  the 
arrival  of  the  Puritans,  was  a  youth,  his  father  appear 
ing  to  have  been  slain  in  some  outbreak  of  the  tribe, 
perhaps  owing  to  the  jealousy  of  prominent  chiefs,  at 
seeing  their  natural  authority  abrogated  or  absorbed 
by  a  man  of  different  race.  He  slightly  alluded  to 
the  supernatural  attributes  that  gathered  round  this 
predecessor,  but  in  a  way  to  imply  that  he  put  no 
faith  in  them ;  for  Septimius's  natural  keen  sense  and 
perception  kept  him  from  betraying  his  weaknesses  to 


166  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

% 

the  doctor,  by  the  same  instinctive  and  subtle  caution 
with  which  a  madman  can  so  well  conceal  his  infirmity. 
On  the  arrival  of  the  Puritans,  they  had  found 
among  the  Indians  a  youth  partly  of  their  own  blood, 
able,  though  imperfectly,  to  speak  their  language,  — 
having,  at  least,  some  early  recollections  of  it,  — 
inheriting,  also,  a  share  of  influence  over  the  tribe 
on  which  his  father  had  grafted  him.  It  was  natural 
that  they  should  pay  especial  attention  to  this  youth, 
consider  it  their  duty  to  give  him  religious  instruc 
tion  in  the  faith  of  his  fathers,  and  try  to  use  him 
as  a  means  of  influencing  his  tribe.  They  did  so, 
but  did  not  succeed  in  swaying  the  tribe  by  his 
means,  their  success  having  been  limited  to  winning 
the  half-Indian  from  the  wild  ways  of  his  mother's 
people,  into  a  certain  partial,  but  decent  accommo 
dation  to  those  of  the  English.  A  tendency  to 
civilization  was  brought  out  in  his  character  by  their 
rigid  training;  at  least,  his  savage  wildness  was 
broken.  He  built  a  house  among  them,  with  a  good 
deal  of  the  wigwam,  no  doubt,  in  its  style  of  archi 
tecture,  but  still  a  permanent  house,  near  which  he 
established  a  corn-field,  a  pumpkin-garden,  a  melon- 
patch,  and  became  farmer  enough  to  be  entitled 
to  ask  the  hand  of  a  Puritan  maiden.  He  spent 
his  life,  with  some  few  instances  of  temporary  relapse 
into  savage  wildness,  when  he  fished  in  the  river 
Musquehannah,  or  in  Walden,  or  strayed  in  the 
woods,  when  he  should  have  been  planting  or  hoeing ; 
but,  on  the  whole,  the  race  had  been  redeemed  from 
barbarism  in  his  person,  and  in  the  succeeding  gen- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  167 

orations  had  been  tamed  more  and  more.  The 
second  generation  had  been  distinguished  in  the 
Indian  wars  of  the  provinces,  and  then  intermarried 
with  the  stock  of  a  distinguished  Puritan  divine, 
by  which  means  Septimius  could  reckon  great  and 
learned  men,  scholars  of  old  Cambridge,  among  his 
ancestry  on  one  side,  while  on  the  other  it  ran 
up  to  the  early  emigrants,  who  seemed  to  have  been 
remarkable  men,  and  to  that  strange  wild  lineage 
of  Indian  chiefs,  whose  blood  was  like  that  of  persons 
not  quite  human,  intermixed  with  civilized  blood. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  doctor,  musingly,  "  whether 
there  are  really  no  documents  to  ascertain  the  epoch 
at  which  that  old  first  emigrant  came  over,  and 
whence  he  came,  and  precisely  from  what  English 
family.  Often  the  last  heir  of  some  respectable 
name  dies  in  England,  and  we  say  that  the  family 
is  extinct;  whereas,  very  possibly,  it  may  be  abun 
dantly  flourishing  in  the  New  World,  revived  by  the 
rich  infusion  of  new  blood  in  a  new  soil,  instead  of 
growing  feebler,  heavier,  stupider,  each  year  by 
sticking  to  an  old  soil,  intermarrying  ever  and  over 
again  with  the  same  respectable  families,  till  it  has 
made  common  stock  of  all  their  vices,  weaknesses, 
madnesses.  Have  you  no  documents,  I  say,  no  muni 
ment  deed?" 

"None,"  said  Septimius. 

"  No  old  furniture,  desks,  trunks,  chests,  cabi 
nets  ? " 

"  You  must  remember,"  said  Septimius,  "  that  my 
Indian  ancestor  was  not  very  likely  to  have  brought 


168  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

such  things  out  of  the  forest  with  him.  A  wander 
ing  Indian  does  not  carry  a  chest  of  papers  with 
him.  I  do  remember,  in  my  childhood,  a  little  old 
iron-bound  chest,  or  coffer,  of  which  the  key  was 
lost,  and  which  my  Aunt  Keziah  used  to  say  came 
down  from  her  great-great-grandfather.  I  don't  know 
what  has  become  of  it,  and  my  poor  old  aunt  kept 
it  among  her  own  treasures." 

"  Well,  my  friend,  do  you  hunt  up  that  old  coffer, 
and,  just  as  a  matter  of  curiosity,  let  me  see  the 
contents." 

"I  have  other  things  to  do,"  said  Septimius. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  quoth  the  doctor,  "  but  no  other, 
as  it  may  turn  out,  of  quite  so  much  importance  as 
this.  I  '11  tell  you  fairly ;  the  heir  of  a  great  Eng 
lish  house  is  lately  dead,  and  the  estate  lies  open  to 
any  well-sustained,  perhaps  to  any  plausible  claimant. 
If  it  should  appear  from  the  records  of  that  family, 
as  I  have  some  reason  to  suppose,  that  a  member  of 
it,  who  would  now  represent  the  older  branch,  dis 
appeared  mysteriously  and  unaccountably,  at  a  date 
corresponding  with  what  might  be  ascertained  as 
that  of  your  ancestor's  first  appearance  in  this  coun 
try;  if  any  reasonable  proof  can  be  brought  for 
ward,  on  the  part  of  the  representatives  of  that 
white  sagamore,  that  wizard  pow-wow,  or  however 
you  call  him,  that  he  was  the  disappearing  English 
man,  why,  a  good  case  is  made  out.  Do  you  feel 
no  interest  in  such  a  prospect  V' 

"  Very  little,   I  confess,"  said  Septimius. 

"  Very  little  ! "  said  the  grim  doctor,  impatiently. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  169 

"  Do  not  you  see  that,  if  you  make  good  your  claim, 
you  establish  for  yourself  a  position  among  the  Eng 
lish  aristocracy,  and  succeed  to  a  noble  English 
estate,  an  ancient  hall,  where  your  forefathers  have 
dwelt  since  the  Conqueror ;  splendid  gardens,  heredi 
tary  woods  and  parks,  to  which  anything  America 
can  show  is  despicable,  —  all  thoroughly  cultivated 
and  adorned,  with  the  care  and  ingenuity  of  centu 
ries  ;  and  an  income,  a  month  of  which  would  be 
greater  wealth  than  any  of  your  American  ancestors, 
raking  and  scraping  for  his  lifetime,  has  ever  got 
together,  as  the  accumulated  result  of  the  toil  and 
penury  by  which  he  has  sacrificed  body  and  soul  1 " 

"  That  strain  of  Indian  blood  is  in  me  yet,"  said 
Septimius,  "  and  it  makes  me  despise,  —  no,  not  de 
spise  ;  for  I  can  see  their  desirableness  for  other  peo 
ple, —  but  it  makes  me  reject  for  myself  what  you 
think  so  valuable.  I  do  not  care  for  these  common 
aims.  I  have  ambition,  but  it  is  for  prizes  such  as 
other  men  cannot  gain,  and  do  not  think  of  aspiring 
after.  I  could  not  live  in  the  habits  of  English  life, 
as  I  conceive  it  to  be,  and  would  not,  for  my  part, 
be  burthen ed  with  the  great  estate  you  speak  of.  It 
might  answer  my  purpose  for  a  time.  It  would  suit 
me  well  enough  to  try  that  mode  of  life,  as  well  as 
a  hundred  others,  but  only  for  a  time.  It  is  of  no 
permanent  importance." 

"  I  '11  tell   you  what   it   is,  young  man,"  said  the 

doctor,  testily,    "you  have  something   in  your  brain 

that    makes   you    talk   very   foolishly  ;     and    I    have 

partly  a  suspicion  what    it    is,  —  only  I    can't  think 

8 


170  SEPTIM1US  FELTON. 

that  a  fellow  who  is  really  gifted  with  respectable 
sense,  in  other  directions,  should  be  such  a  con 
founded  idiot  in  this." 

Septimius  blushed,  but  held  his  peace,  and  the 
conversation  languished  after  this ;  the  doctor  grimly 
smoking  his  pipe,  and  by  no  means  increasing  the 
milkiness  of  his  mood  by  frequent  applications  to 
the  black  bottle,  until  Septimius  intimated  that  he 
would  like  to  go  to  bed.  The  old  woman  was  sum 
moned,  and  ushered  him  to  his  chamber. 

At  breakfast,  the  doctor  partially  renewed  the  sub 
ject  which  he  seemed  to  consider  most  important  in 
yesterday's  conversation. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  advise  you  to  look 
in  cellar  and  garret,  or  wherever  you  consider  the 
most  likely  place,  for  that  iron-bound  coffer.  There 
may  be  nothing  in  it ;  it  may  be  full  of  musty  love- 
letters,  or  old  sermons,  or  receipted  bills  of  a  hundred 
years  ago  ;  but  it  may  contain  what  will  be  worth  to 
you  an  estate  of  five  thousand  pounds  a  year.  It  is  a 
pity  the  old  woman  with  the  damnable  decoction  is 
gone  off.  Look  it  up,  I  say." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Septimius,  abstractedly,  "  when 
I  can  find  time." 

So  saying,  he  took  his  leave,  and  retraced  his  way 
back  to  his  home.  He  had  not  seemed  like  himself 
during  the  time  that  elapsed  since  he  left  it,  and  it 
appeared  an  infinite  space  that  he  had  lived  through 
and  travelled  over,  and  he  fancied  it  hardly  possible 
that  he  could  ever  get  back  again.  But  now,  with 
every  step  that  he  took,  he  found  himself  getting  mis- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  171 

erably  back  into  the  old  enchanted  land.  The  mist 
rose  up  about  him,  the  pale  mist-bow  of  ghostly  prom 
ise  curved  before  him ;  and  he  trod  back  again,  poor 
boy,  out  of  the  clime  of  real  effort,  into  the  land  of  his 
dreams  and  shadowy  enterprise. 

"How  was  it,"  said  he,  "  that  I  can  have  been  so 
untrue  to  my  convictions  ?  Whence  came  that  dark 
and  dull  despair  that  weighed  upon  me  1  Why  did  I 
let  the  mocking  mood  which  I  was  conscious  of  in  that 
brutal,  brandy-burnt  sceptic  have  such  an  influence 
on  me  1  Let  him  guzzle  !  He  shall  not  tempt  me 
from  my  pursuit,  with  his  lure  of  an  estate  and  name 
among  those  heavy  English  beef-eaters  of  whom  he 
is  a  brother.  My  destiny  is  one  which  kings  might 
envy,  and  strive  in  vain  to  buy  with  principalities  and 
kingdoms." 

So  he  trod  on  air  almost,  in  the  latter  parts  of  his 
journey,  and  instead  of  being  wearied,  grew  more  airy 
with  the  latter  miles  that  brought  him  to  his  wayside 
home. 

So  now  Septimius  sat  down,  and  began  in  earnest 
his  endeavors  and  experiments  to  prepare  the  medi 
cine,  according  to  the  mysterious  terms  of  the  recipe. 
It  seemed  not  possible  to  do  it,  so  many  rebuffs  and 
disappointments  did  he  meet  with.  No  effort  would 
produce  a  combination  answering  to  the  description  of 
the  recipe,  which  propounded  a  brilliant,  gold-colored 
liquid,  clear  as  the  air  itself,  with  a  certain  fragrance 
which  was  peculiar  to  it,  and  also,  what  was  the  more 
individual  test  of  the  correctness  of  the  mixture,  a  cer 
tain  coldness  of  the  feeling,  a  dullness  which  was  de- 


172  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

scribed  as  peculiarly  refreshing  and  invigorating.  With 
all  his  trials,  he  produced  nothing  but  turbid  results, 
clouded  generally,  or  lacking  something  in  color,  and 
never  that  fragrance,  and  never  that  coldness  which 
was  to  be  the  test  of  truth.  He  studied  all  the  books 
of  chemistry  which  at  that  period  were  attainable,  —  a 
period  when,  in  the  world,  it  was  a  science  far  unlike 
what  it  has  since  become  ;  and  when  Septimius  had 
no  instruction  in  this  country,  nor  could  obtain  any 
beyond  the  dark,  mysterious,  charlatanic  communica 
tions  of  Doctor  Portsoaken.  So  that,  in  fact,  he  seemed 
to  be  discovering  for  himself  the  science  through  which 
he  was  to  work.  He  seemed  to  do  everything  that 
was  stated  in  the  recipe,  and  yet  no  results  came  from 
it ;  the  liquid  that  he  produced  was  nauseous  to  the 
smell,  —  to  taste  it  he  had  a  horrible  repugnance,  — 
turbid,  nasty,  reminding  him  in  most  respects  of  poor 
Aunt  Keziah's  elixir ;  and  it  was  a  body  without  a 
soul,  and  that  body  dead.  And  so  it  went  on  ;  and 
the  poor,  half-maddened  Septimius  began  to  think  that 
his  immortal  life  was  preserved  by  the  mere  effort  of 
seeking  for  it,  but  was  to  be  spent  in  the  quest,  and 
was  therefore  to  be  made  an  eternity  of  abortive  mis 
ery.  He  pored  over  the  document  that  had  so  pos 
sessed  him,  turning  its  crabbed  meanings  every  way, 
trying  to  get  out  of  it  some  new  light,  often  tempted 
to  fling  it  into  the  fire  which  he  kept  under  his  retort, 
and  let  the  whole  thing  go ;  but  then  again,  soon  ris 
ing  out  of  that  black  depth  of  despair,  into  a  determi 
nation  to  do  what  he  had  so  long  striven  for.  With 
sucli  intense  action  of  mind  as  he  brought  to  bear  on 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  173 

this  paper,  it  is  wonderful  that  it  was  not  spiritually 
distilled  ;  that  its  essence  did  not  arise,  purified  from 
all  alloy  of  falsehood,  from  all  turbidness  of  obscurity 
and  ambiguity,  and  from  a  pure  essence  of  truth  and 
invigorating  motive,  if  of  any  it  were  capable.  In 
this  interval,  Septimius  is  said  by  tradition  to  have 
found  out  many  wonderful  secrets  that  were  almost 
beyond  the  scope  of  science.  It  was  said  that  old 
Aunt  Keziah  used  to  come  with  a  coal  of  fire  from  un 
known  furnaces,  to  light  his  distilling  apparatus ;  it 
was  said,  too,  that  the  ghost  of  the  old  lord,  whose  in 
genuity  had  propounded  this  puzzle  for  his  descend 
ants,  used  to  come  at  midnight  and  strive  to  explain 
to  him  this  manuscript ;  that  the  Black  Man,  too,  met 
him  on  the  hill-top,  and  promised  him  an  immediate 
release  from  his  difficulties,  provided  he  would  kneel 
down  and  worship  him,  and  sign  his  name  in  his  book, 
an  old,  iron-clasped,  much-worn  volume,  which  he  pro 
duced  from  his  ample  pockets,  and  showed  him  in  it 
the  names  of  many  a  man  whose  name  has  become 
historic,  and  above  whose  ashes  kept  watch  an  inscrip 
tion  testifying  to  his  virtues  and  devotion,  —  old 
autographs, — for  the  Black  Man  was  the  original 
autograph  collector. 

But  these,  no  doubt,  were  foolish  stories,  conceived 
and  propagated  in  chimney-corners,  while  yet  there 
were  chimney-corners  and  firesides,  and  smoky  flues. 
There  was  no  truth  in  such  things,  I  am  sure  ;  the 
Black  Man  had  changed  his  tactics,  and  knew  better 
than  to  lure  the  human  soul  thus  to  come  to  him  with 
his  musty  autograph-book.  So  Septimius  fought  with 


174  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

his  difficulty  by  himself,  as  many  a  beginner  in  science 
has  done  before  him ;  and  to  his  efforts  in  this  way 
are  popularly  attributed  many  herb-drinks,  and  some 
kinds  of  spruce-beer,  and  nostrums  used  for  rheuma 
tism,  sore  throat,  and  typhus  fever  ;  but  I  rather  think 
they  all  came  from  Aunt  Keziah  ;  or  perhaps,  like 
jokes  to  Joe  Miller,  all  sorts  of  quack  medicines, 
flocking  at  large  through  the  community,  are  assigned 
to  him  or  her.  The  people  have  a  little  mistaken  the 
character  and  purpose  of  poor  Septimius,  and  remem 
ber  him  as  a  quack  doctor,  instead  of  a  seeker  for  a 
secret,  not  the  less  sublime  and  elevating  because  it 
happened  to  be  unattainable. 

I  know  not  through  what  medium,  or  by  what 
means,  but  it  got  noised  abroad  that  Septimius  was 
engaged  in  some  mysterious  work;  and,  indeed,  his 
seclusion,  his  absorption,  his  indifference  to  all  that 
was  going  on  in  that  weary  time  of  war,  looked  strange 
enough  to  indicate  that  it  must  be  some  most  impor 
tant  business  that  engrossed  him.  On  the  few  occa 
sions  when  he  came  out  from  his  immediate  haunts 
into  the  village,  he  had  a  strange,  owl-like  appearance, 
uncombed,  unbrushed,  his  hair  long  and  tangled ;  his 
face,  they  said,  darkened  with  smoke  ;  his  cheeks  pale  ; 
the  indentation  of  his  brow  deeper  than  ever  before  ; 
Rn  earnest,  haggard,  sulking  look ;  and  so  he  went 
hastily  along  the  village  street,  feeling  as  if  all  eyes 
might  find  out  what  he  had  in  his  mind  from  his 
appearance ;  taking  by-ways  where  they  were  to  be 
found,  going  long  distances  through  woods  and  fields, 
rather  than  short  ones  where  the  way  lay  through  the 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  175 

frequented  haunts  of  men.  For  he  shunned  the 
glances  of  his  fellow-men,  probably  because  he  had 
learnt  to  consider  them  not  as  fellows,  because  he  was 
seeking  to  withdraw  himself  from  the  common  bond 
and  destiny,  —  because  he  felt,  too,  that  on  that  ac 
count  his  fellow-men  would  consider  him  as  a  traitor, 
an  enemy,  one  who  deserted  their  cause,  and  tried 
to  withdraw  his  feeble  shoulder  from  under  that  great 
burthen  of  death  which  is  imposed  on  all  men  to  bear, 
and  which,  if  one  could  escape,  each  other  would  feel 
his  load  proportionably  heavier.  With  these  beings  of 
a  moment  he  had  no  longer  any  common  cause ;  they 
must  go  their  separate  ways,  yet  apparently  the  same, 
—  they  on  the  broad,  dusty,  beaten  path,  that  seemed 
always  full,  but  from  which  continually  they  so  strange 
ly  vanished  into  invisibility,  no  one  knowing,  nor  long 
inquiring,  what  had  become  of  them  ;  he  on  his  lonely 
path,  where  he  should  tread  secure,  with  no  trouble 
but  the  loneliness  which  would  be  none  to  him.  For 
a  little  while  he  would  seem  to  keep  them  company, 
but  soon  they  would  all  drop  away,  the  minister,  his 
accustomed  townspeople,  Robert  Hagburn,  Rose,  Sybil 
Dacy,  — •  all  leaving  him  in  blessed  unknownness  to 
adopt  new  temporary  relations,  and  take  a  new  course. 
Sometimes,  however,  the  prospect  a  little  chilled 
him.  Could  he  give  them  all  up,  —  the  sweet  sister ; 
the  friend  of  his  childhood ;  the  grave  instructor 
of  his  youth ;  the  homely,  life-known  faces  1  Yes ; 
there  were  such  rich  possibilities  in  the  future  : 
for  he  would  seek  out  the  noblest  minds,  the  deep 
est  hearts  in  every  age,  and  be  the  friend  of  human 


176  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

time.  Only  it  might  be  sweet  to  have  one  unchange 
able  companion  ;  for,  unless  he  strung  the  pearls  and 
diamonds  of  life  upon  one  unbroken  affection,  he 
sometimes  thought  that  his  life  would  have  nothing 
to  give  it  unity  and  identity ;  and  so  the  longest 
life  would  be  but  an  aggregate  of  insulated  frag 
ments,  which  would  have  no  relation  to  one  another. 
And  so  it  would  not  be  one  life,  but  many  un 
connected  ones.  Unless  he  could  look  into  the  same 
eyes,  through  the  mornings  of  future  time,  opening 
and  blessing  him  with  the  fresh  gleam  of  love  and 
;joy ;  unless  the  same  sweet  voice  could  melt  his 
thoughts  together;  unless  some  sympathy  of  a  life 
side  by  side  with  his  could  knit  them  into  one ; 
looking  back  upon  the  same  things,  looking  forward 
to  the  same  ;  the  long,  thin  thread  of  an  individual 
life,  stretching  onward  and  onward,  would  cease  to 
be  visible,  cease  to  be  felt,  cease,  by  and  by,  to  have 
any  real  bigness  in  proportion  to  its  length,  and  so 
be  virtually  non-existent,  except  in  the  mere  incon 
siderable  Now.  If  a  group  of  chosen  friends,  chosen 
out  of  all  the  world  for  their  adaptedness,  could  go 
on  in  endless  life  together,  keeping  themselves  mutu 
ally  warm  on  the  high,  desolate  way,  then  none  of 
them  need  ever  sigh  to  be  comforted  in  the  pitiable 
snuguess  of  the  grave.  If  one  especial  soul  might  be 
his  companion,  then  how  complete  the  fence  of  mu 
tual  arms,  the  warmth  of  close-pressing  breast  to 
breast !  Might  there  be  one  !  0,  Sybil  Dacy  ! 

Perhaps  it  could  not  be.     Who  but  himself  could 
undergo    that    great    trial,    and    hardship,    and    self- 


SEPTIMIUS  1  ELTON.  177 

denial,  and  firm  purpose,  never  wavering,  never  sink 
ing  for  a  moment,  keeping  his  grasp  on  life  like  one 
who  holds  up  by  main  force  a  sinking  and  drown 
ing  friend]  —  how  could  a  woman  do  it  !  He  must 
then  give  up  the  thought.  There  was  a  choice,  — 
friendship,  and  the  love  of  woman,  —  the  long  life 
of  immortality.  There  was  something  heroic  and 
ennobling  in  choosing  the  latter.  And  so  he  walked 
with  the  mysterious  girl  on  the  hill-top,  and  sat 
down  beside  her  on  the  grave,  which  still  ceased  not 
to  redden,  portentously  beautiful,  with  that  unnatu 
ral  flower,  —  and  they  talked  together ;  and  Sep- 
timius  looked  on  her  weird  beauty,  and  often  said 
to  himself,  "This,  too,  will  pass  away;  she  is  not 
capable  of  what  I  am,  she  is  a  woman.  It  must  be 
a  manly  and  courageous  and  forcible  spirit,  vastly 
rich  in  all  three  particulars,  that  has  strength  enough 
to  live  !  Ah,  is  it  surely  so  1  There  is  such  a  dark 
sympathy  between  us,  she  knows  me  so  well,  she 
touches  my  inmost  so  at  unawares,  that  I  could  al 
most  think  I  had  a  companion  here.  Perhaps  not  so 
soon.  At  the  end  of  centuries  I  might  wed  one ; 
not  now." 

But  once  he  said  to  Sybil  Dacy,  "Ah,  how  sweet 
it  would  be  —  sweet  for  me,  at  least  —  if  this  inter 
course  might  last  forever  !  " 

"  That  is  an  awful  idea  that  y©u  present,"  said 
Sybil,  with  a  hardly  perceptible,  involuntary  shudder ; 
"  always  on  this  hill-top,  always  passing  and  repassing 
this  little  hillock;  always  smelling  these  flowers!  I 
always  looking  at  this  deep  chasm  in  your  brow ;  you 


178  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

always  seeing  my  bloodless  cheek!  —  doing  this  till 
these  trees  crumble  away,  till  perhaps  a  new  forest 
grew  up  wherever  this  white  race  had  planted,  and  a 
race  of  savages  again  possess  the  soil.  I  should  not 
like  it.  My  mission  here  is  but  for  a  short  time,  and 
will  soon  be  accomplished,  and  then  I  go." 

"  You  do  not  rightly  estimate  the  way  in  which 
the  long  time  might  be  spent,"  said  Septimius.  "  We 
would  find  out  a  thousand  uses  of  this  world,  uses 
and  enjoyments  which  now  men  never  dream  of, 
because  the  world  is  just  held  to  their  mouths,  and 
then  snatched  away  again,  before  they  have  time 
hardly  to  taste  it,  instead  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  the  deliciousness  of  this  great  world-fruit.  But 
you  speak  of  a  mission,  and  as  if  you  were  now  in 
performance  of  it.  Will  you  not  tell  me  what  it 
is?" 

"  No,"  said  Sybil  Dacy,  smiling  on  him.  "  But 
one  day  you  shall  know  what  it  is,  —  none  sooner 
nor  better  than  you,  —  so  much  I  promise  you." 

"Are  we  friends]"  asked  Septimius,  somewhat  puz 
zled  by  her  look. 

"We  have  an  intimate  relation  to  one  another," 
replied  Sybil. 

"  And  what  is  it  1 "  demanded  Septimius. 

"  That  will  appear  hereafter,"  answered  Sybil,  again 
smiling  on  him. 

He  knew  not  what  to  make  of  this,  nor  whether  to 
be  exalted  or  depressed ;  but,  at  all  events,  there 
seemed  to  be  an  accordance,  a  striking  together,  a 
mutual  touch  of  their  two  natures,  as  if,  somehow  or 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  179 

other,  they  were  performing  the  same  part  of  solemn 
music;  so  that  he  felt  his  soul  thrill,  and  at  the 
same  time  shudder.  Some  sort  of  sympathy  there 
surely  was,  but  of  what  nature  he  could  not  tell ; 
though  often  he  was  impelled  to  ask  himself  the 
same  question  he  asked  Sybil,  "Are  we  friends'?" 
because  of  a  sudden  shock  and  repulsion  that  came 
between  them,  and  passed  away  in  a  moment ;  and 
there  would  be  Sybil,  smiling  askance  on  him. 

And  then  he  toiled  away  again  at  his  chemical 
pursuits;  tried  to  mingle  things  harmoniously  that 
apparently  were  not  born  to  be  mingled ;  discovering 
a  science  for  himself,  and  mixing  it  up  with  ab 
surdities  that  other  chemists  had  long  ago  flung 
aside ;  but  still  there  would  be  that  turbid  aspect, 
still  that  lack  of  fragrance,  still  that  want  of  the 
peculiar  temperature,  that  was  announced  as  the  test 
of  the  matter.  Over  and  over  again,  he  set  the  crystal 
vase  in  the  sun,  and  let  it  stay  there  the  appointed 
time,  hoping  that  it  would  digest  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  bring  about  the  desired  result. 

One  day,  as  it  happened,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
silver  key  which  he  had  taken  from  the  breast  of  the 
dead  young  man,  and  he  thought  within  himself  that 
this  might  have  something  to  do  with  the  seemingly 
unattainable  success  of  his  pursuit.  He  remembered, 
for  the  first  time,  the  grim  doctor's  emphatic  injunc 
tion  to  search  for  the  little  iron-bound  box  of  which 
he  had  spoken,  and  which  had  come  down  with  such 
legends  attached  to  it ;  as,  for  instance,  that  it  held 
the  Devil's  bond  with  his  great-great-grandfather,  now 


180  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

cancelled  by  the  surrender  of  the  latter's  soul ;  that 
it  held  the  golden  key  of  Paradise  ;  that  it  was  full 
of  old  gold,  or  of  the  dry  leaves  of  a  hundred  years 
ago ;  that  it  had  a  familiar  friend  in  it,  who  would 
be  exorcised  by  the  turning  of  the  lock,  but  would 
otherwise  remain  a  prisoner  till  the  solid  oak  of  the 
box  mouldered,  or  the  iron  rusted  away;  so  that 
between  fear  and  the  loss  of  the  key,  this  curious  old 
box  had  remained  unopened,  till  itself  was  lost. 

But  now  Septimius,  putting  together  what  Aunt 
Keziah  had  said  in  her  dying  moments,  and  what  Doc 
tor  Portsoaken  had  insisted  upon,  suddenly  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  possession  of  the  old  iron  box 
might  be  of  the  greatest  importance  to  him.  So  he 
set  himself  at  once  to  think  where  he  had  last  seen 
it.  Aunt  Keziah,  of  course,  had  put  it  away  in  some 
safe  place  or  other,  either  in  cellar  or  garret,  no 
doubt ;  so  Septimius,  in  the  intervals  of  his  other 
occupations,  devoted  several  days  to  the  search ;  and 
not  to  weary  the  reader  with  the  particulars  of  the 
quest  for  an  old  box,  suffice  it  to  say  that  he  at  last 
found  it,  amongst  various  other  antique  rubbish,  in  a 
corner  of  the  garret. 

It  was  a  very  rusty  old  thing,  not  more  than  a 
foot  in  length,  and  half  as  much  in  height  and 
breadth ;  but  most  ponderously  iron-bound,  with  bars, 
and  corners,  and  all  sorts  of  fortification;  looking 
very  much  like  an  ancient  alms-box,  such  as  are  to  be 
seen  in  the  older  rural  churches  of  England,  and 
which  seem  to  intimate  great  distrust  of  those  to 
whom  the  funds  are  committed.  Indeed,  there  might 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  181 

be  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  some  ancient  church- 
beadle  among  Septimius's  forefathers,  when  emigrating 
from  England,  had  taken  the  opportunity  of  bringing 
the  poor-box  along  with  him.  On  looking  close,  too, 
there  were  rude  embellishments  on  the  lid  and  sides 
of  the  box  in  long-rusted  steel,  designs  such  as  the 
Middle  Ages  were  rich  in ;  a  representation  of  Adam 
and  Eve,  or  of  Satan  and  a  soul,  nobody  could  tell 
which  ;  but,  at  any  rate,  an  illustration  of  great  value 
and  interest.  Septimius  looked  at  this  ugly,  rusty, 
ponderous  old  box,  so  worn  and  battered  with  time, 
and  recollected  with  a  scornful  smile  the  legends  of 
which  it  was  the  object ;  all  of  which  he  despised  and 
discredited,  just  as  much  as  he  did  that  story  in  the 
"Arabian  Nights,"  where  a  demon  comes  out  of  a  cop 
per  vase,  in  a  cloud  of  smoke  that  covers  the  sea 
shore  ;  for  he  was  singularly  invulnerable  to  all  modes 
of  superstition,  all  nonsense,  except  his  own.  But 
that  one  mode  was  ever  in  full  force  and  operation 
with  him.  He  felt  strongly  convinced  that  inside 
the  old  box  was  something  that  appertained  to  his 
destiny ;  the  key  that  he  had  taken  from  the  dead 
man's  breast,  had  that  come  down  through  time,  and 
across  the  sea,  and  had  a  man  died  to  bring  and 
deliver  it  to  him,  merely  for  nothing1?  It  could 
not  be. 

He  looked  at  the  old,  rusty,  elaborated  lock  of 
the  little  receptacle.  It  was  much  flourished  about 
with  what  was  once  polished  steel;  and  certainly, 
when  thus  polished,  and  the  steel  bright  with  which 
it  was  hooped,  defended,  and  inlaid,  it  must  have 


182  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

been  a  thing  fit  to  appear  in  any  cabinet;  though 
now  the  oak  was  worm-eaten  as  an  old  coffin,  and 
the  rust  of  the  iron  came  off  red  on  Septimius's 
fingers,  after  he  had  been  fumbling  at  it.  He  looked 
at  the  curious  old  silver  key  too,  and  fancied  that 
he  discovered  in  its  elaborate  handle  some  likeness 
to  the  ornaments  about  the  box ;  at  any  rate,  this  he 
determined  was  the  key  of  fate,  and  he  was  just 
applying  it  to  the  lock,  when  somebody  tapped  famil 
iarly  at  the  door,  having  opened  the  outer  one,  and 
stepped  in  with  a  manly  stride.  Septimius,  inwardly 
blaspheming,  as  secluded  men  are  apt  to  do  when  any 
interruption  comes,  and  especially  when  it  comes  at 
some  critical  moment  of  projection,  left  the  box  as  yet 
unbroached,  and  said,  "Come  in." 

The  door  opened,  and  Robert  Hagburn  entered; 
looking  so  tall  and  stately,  that  Septimius  hardly 
knew  him  for  the  youth  with  whom  he  had  grown 
up  familiarly.  He  had  on  the  Revolutionary  dress 
of  buff  and  blue,  with  decorations  that  to  the  initiated 
eye  denoted  him  an  officer,  and  certainly  there  was  a 
kind  of  authority  in  his  look  and  manner,  indicating 
that  heavy  responsibilities,  critical  moments,  had  edu 
cated  him,  and  turned  the  ploughboy  into  a  man. 

"Is  it  you?"  exclaimed  Septimius.  "I  scarcely 
knew  you.  How  war  has  altered  you  ! " 

"And  I  may  say,  Is  it  you?  for  you  are  much 
altered  likewise,  my  old  friend.  Study  wears  upon 
you  terribly.  You  will  be  an  old  man,  at  this  rate, 
before  you  know  you  are  a  young  one.  You  will  kill 
yourself,  as  sure  as  a  gun  ! " 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  183 

"  Do  you  think  so  1 "  said  Septimius,  rather  startled, 
for  the  queer  absurdity  of  the  position  struck  him,  if 
he  should  so  exhaust  and  wear  himself  as  to  die,  just 
at  the  moment  when  he  should  have  found  out  the 
secret  of  everlasting  life.  "  But  though  I  look  pale,  I 
am  very  vigorous.  Judging  from  that  scar,  slanting 
down  from  your  temple,  you  have  been  nearer  death 
than  you  now  think  me,  though  in  another  way." 

"Yes,"  said  Robert  Hagburn;  "but  in  hot  blood, 
and  for  a  good  cause,  who  cares  for  death?  And 
yet  I  love  life;  none  better,  while  it  lasts,  and  I 
love  it  in  all  its  looks  and  turns  and  surprises ;  — 
there  is  so  much  to  be  got  out  of  it,  in  spite  of  all 
that  people  say.  Youth  is  sweet,  with  its  fiery  enter 
prise,  and  I  suppose  mature  manhood  will  be  just  as 
much  so,  though  in  a  calmer  way,  and  age,  quieter 
still,  will  have  its  own  merits;  —  the  thing  is  only 
to  do  with  Life  what  we  ought,  and  what  is  suited 
to  each  of  its  stages ;  do  all,  enjoy  all,  —  and  I 
suppose  these  two  rules  amount  to  the  same  thing. 
Only  catch  real  earnest  hold  of  life,  not  play  with 
it,  and  not  defer  one  part  of  it  for  the  sake  of 
another,  then  each  part  of  life  will  do  for  us  what 
was  intended.  People  talk  of  the  hardships  of 
military  service,  of  the  miseries  that  we  undergo 
fighting  for  our  country.  I  have  undergone  my  share, 
I  believe,  —  hard  toil  in  the  wilderness,  hunger,  ex 
treme  weariness,  pinching  cold,  the  torture  of  a 
wound,  peril  of  death ;  and  really  I  have  been  as 
happy  through  it  as  ever  I  was  at  my  mother's 
cosey  fireside  of  a  winter's  evening.  If  I  had  died, 


184  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

I  doubt  not  my  last  moments  would  have  been 
happy.  There  is  no  use  of  life,  but  just  to  find  out 
what  is  fit  for  us  to  do ;  and,  doing  it,  it  seems  to 
be  little  matter  whether  we  live  or  die  in  it.  God 
does  not  want  our  work,  but  only  our  willingness 
to  work ;  at  least,  the  last  seems  to  answer  all  his 
purposes." 

"  This  is  a  comfortable  philosophy  of  yours,"  said 
Septimius,  rather  contemptuously,  and  yet  enviously. 
"  Where  did  you  get  it,  Robert  1 " 

"  Where  *?  Nowhere ;  it  came  to  me  on  the  march ; 
and  though  I  can't  say  that  I  thought  it  when  the 
bullets  pattered  into  the  snow  about  me,  in  those  nar 
row  streets  of  Quebec,  yet,  I  suppose,  it  was  in  my 
mind  then ;  for,  as  I  tell  you,  I  was  very  cheerful  and 
contented.  And  you,  Septimius?  I  never  saw  such 
a  discontented,  unhappy-looking  fellow  as  you  are. 
You  have  had  a  harder  time  in  peace  than  I  in  war. 
You  have  not  found  what  you  seek,  whatever  that 
may  be.  Take  my  advice.  Give  yourself  to  the  next 
work  that  comes  to  hand.  The  war  offers  place  to  all 
of  us ;  we  ought  to  be  thankful,  —  the  most  joyous  of 
all  the  generations  before  or  after  us,  —  since  Provi 
dence  gives  us  such  good  work  to  live  for,  or  such  a 
good  opportunity  to  die.  It  is  worth  living  for,  just 
to  have  the  chance  to  die  so  well  as  a  man  may  in 
these  days.  Come,  be  a  soldier.  Be  a  chaplain, 
since  your  education  lies  that  way ;  and  you  will  find 
that  nobody  in  peace  prays  so  well  as  we  do,  we 
soldiers ;  and  you  shall  not  be  debarred  from  fighting, 
too ;  if  war  is  holy  work,  a  priest  may  lawfully  do  it, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  185 

as  well  as  pray  for  it.  Come  with  us,  my  old  friend 
Septimius,  be  my  comrade,  and,  whether  you  live  or 
die,  you  will  thank  me  for  getting  you  out  of  the 
yellow  forlornness  in  which  you  go  on,  neither  living 
nor  dying." 

Septimius  looked  at  Robert  Hagburn  in  surprise ; 
so  much  was  he  altered  and  improved  by  this  brief 
experience  of  war,  adventure,  responsibility,  which  he 
had  passed  through.  Not  less  than  the  effect  pro 
duced  on  his  loutish,  rustic  air  and  deportment, 
developing  his  figure,  seeming  to  make  him  taller, 
setting  free  the  manly  graces  that  lurked  within  his 
awkward  frame,  —  not  less  was  the  effect  on  his  mind 
and  moral  nature,  giving  freedom  of  ideas,  simple 
perception  of  great  thoughts,  a  free  natural  chivalry  ; 
so  that  the  knight,  the  Homeric  warrior,  the  hero, 
seemed  to  be  here,  or  possible  to  be  here,  in  the  young 
New  England  rustic ;  and  all  that  history  has  given, 
and  hearts  throbbed  and  sighed  and  gloried  over,  of 
patriotism  and  heroic  feeling  and  action,  might  be 
repeated,  perhaps,  in  the  life  and  death  of  this  famil 
iar  friend  and  playmate  of  his,  whom  he  had  valued 
not  over  highly,  —  Robert  Hagburn.  He  had  merely 
followed  out  his  natural  heart,  boldly  and  singly,  — 
doing  the  first  good  thing  that  came  to  hand,  —  and 
here  was  a  hero. 

"  You  almost  make  me  envy  you,  Robert,"  said  he, 
sighing. 

"  Then  why  not  come  with  me  1 "  asked  Robert. 

"  Because  I  have  another  destiny,"  said  Septim 
ius. 


186  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  Well,  you  are  mistaken ;  be  sure  of  that,"  said 
Robert.  "  This  is  not  a  generation  for  study,  and  the 
making  of  books ;  that  may  come  by  and  by.  This 
great  fight  has  need  of  all  men  to  carry  it  on,  in  one 
way  or  another ;  and  no  man  will  do  well,  even  for 
himself,  who  tries  to  avoid  his  share  in  it.  But  I  have 
said  my  say.  And  now,  Septimius,  the  war  takes 
much  of  a  man,  but  it  does  not  take  him  all,  and  what 
it  leaves  is  all  the  more  full  of  life  and  health  thereby. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you  about  this." 

"  Say  it  then,  Robert,"  said  Septimius,  who,  having 
got  over  the  first  excitement  of  the  interview,  and  the 
sort  of  exhilaration  produced  by  the  healthful  glow  of 
Robert's  spirit,  began  secretly  to  wish  that  it  might 
close,  and  to  be  permitted  to  return  to  his  solitary 
thoughts  again.  "  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Why,  nothing,"  said  Robert,  looking  rather  con 
fused,  "  since  all  is  settled.  The  fact  is,  my  old  friend, 
as  perhaps  you  have  seen,  I  have  very  long  had  an 
*ye  upon  your  sister  Rose  ;  yes,  from  the  time  we  went 
together  to  the  old  school-house,  where  she  now  teaches 
children  like  what  we  were  then.  The  war  took  me 
away,  and  in  good  time,  for  I  doubt  if  Rose  would  ever 
have  cared  enough  for  me  to  be  my  wife,  if  I  had 
stayed  at  home,  a  country  lout,  as  I  was  getting  to  be, 
in  shirt-sleeves  and  bare  feet.  But  now,  you  see,  I 
have  come  back,  and  this  whole  great  war,  to  her  wo 
man's  heart,  is  represented  in  me,  and  makes  me  heroic, 
so  to  speak,  and  strange,  and  yet  her  old  familiar  lover. 
So  I  found  her  heart  tenderer  for  me  than  it  was ;  and, 
in  short,  Rose  has  consented  to  be  my  wife,  and  we 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  187 

mean  to  be  married  in  a  week ;  my  furlough  permits 
little  delay." 

uYou  surprise  me,"  said  Septimius,  who,  immersed 
in  his  own  pursuits,  had  taken  no  notice  of  the  grow 
ing  affection  between  Robert  and  his  sister.  "  Do  you 
think  it  well  to  snatch  this  little  lull  that  is  allowed 
you  in  the  wild  striving  of  war  to  try  to  make  a  peace 
ful  home  1  Shall  you  like  to  be  summoned  from  it 
soon  1  Shall  you  be  as  cheerful  among  dangers  after 
wards,  when  one  sword  may  cut  down  two  happi 
nesses  1 " 

"  There  is  something  in  what  you  say,  and  I  have 
thought  of  it,"  said  Robert,  sighing.  "But  I  can't 
tell  how  it  is ;  but  there  is  something  in  this  uncer 
tainty,  this  peril,  this  cloud  before  us,  that  makes  it 
sweeter  to  love  and  to  be  loved  than  amid  all  seeming 
quiet  and  serenity.  Really,  I  think,  if  there  were  to 
be  no  death,  the  beauty  of  life  would  be  all  tame.  So 
we  take  our  chance,  or  our  dispensation  of  Providence, 
and  are  going  to  love,  and  to  be  married,  just  as  con 
fidently  as  if  we  were  sure  of  living  forever." 

"  Well,  old  fellow,"  said  Septimius,  with  more  cor 
diality  and  outgush  of  heart  than  he  had  felt  for  a  long 
while,  "  there  is  no  man  whom  I  should  be  happier  to 
call  brother.  Take  Rose,  and  all  happiness  along  with 
her.  She  is  a  good  girl,  and  not  in  the  least  like  me. 
May  you  live  out  your  threescore  years  and  ten,  and 
every  one  of  them  be  happy." 

Little  more  passed,  and  Robert  Hagburn  took  his 
leave  with  a  hearty  shake  of  Septimius's  hand,  too 
conscious  of  his  own  happiness  to  be  quite  sensible  how 


188  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

much  the  latter  was  self-involved,  strange,  anxious, 
separated  from  healthy  life  and  interests ;  and  Sep- 
timius,  as  soon  as  Robert  had  disappeared,  locked  the 
door  behind  him,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  apply  the 
silver  key  to  the  lock  of  the  old  strong  box. 

The  lock  resisted  somewhat,  being  rusty,  as  might 
well  be  supposed  after  so  many  years  since  it  was 
opened ;  but  it  finally  allowed  the  key  to  turn,  and 
Septiinius,  with  a  good  deal  of  flutter  at  his  heart, 
opened  the  lid.  The  interior  had  a  very  different  as 
pect  from  that  of  the  exterior ;  for,  whereas  the  latter 
looked  so  old,  this,  having  been  kept  from  the  air, 
looked  about  as  new  as  when  shut  up  from  light  and 
air  two  centuries  ago,  less  or  more.  It  was  lined  with 
ivory,  beautifully  carved  in  figures,  according  to  the 
art  which  the  mediaeval  people  possessed  in  great  per 
fection  ;  and  probably  the  box  had  been  a  lady's  jewel- 
casket  formerly,  and  had  glowed  with  rich  lustre  and 
bright  colors  at  former  openings.  But  now  there  was 
nothing  in  it  of  that  kind,  —  nothing  in  keeping  with 
those  figures  carved  in  the  ivory  representing  some 
mythical  subjects,  —  nothing  but  some  papers  in  the 
bottom  of  the  box  written  over  in  an  ancient  hand, 
which  Septimius  at  once  fancied  that  he  recognized  as 
that  of  the  manuscript  and  recipe  which  he  had  found 
on  the  breast  of  the  young  soldier.  He  eagerly  seized 
them,  but  was  infinitely  disappointed  to  find  that  they 
did  not  seem  to  refer  at  all  to  the  subjects  treated  by 
the  former,  but  related  to  pedigrees  and  genealogies, 
and  were  in  reference  to  an  English  family  and  some 
member  of  it  who,  two  centuries  before,  had  crossed 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  189 

the  sea  to  America,  and  who,  in  this  way,  had  sought 
to  preserve  his  connection  with  his  native  stock,  so  as 
to  be  able,  perhaps,  to  prove  it  for  himself  or  his  de 
scendants  ;  and  there  was  reference  to  documents  and 
records  in  England  in  confirmation  of  the  genealogy. 
Septimius  saw  that  this  paper  had  been  drawn  up  by 
an  ancestor  of  his  own,  the  unfortunate  man  who  had 
been  hanged  for  witchcraft ;  but  so  earnest  had  been 
his  expectation  of  something  different,  that  he  flung 
the  old  papers  down  with  bitter  indifference. 

Then  again  he  snatched  them  up,  and  contemptu 
ously  read  them,  —  those  proofs  of  descent  through 
generations  of  esquires  and  knights,  who  had  been  re 
nowned  in  war ;  and  there  seemed,  too,  to  be  running 
through  the  family  a  certain  tendency  to  letters,  for 
three  were  designated  as  of  the  colleges  of  Oxford  or 
Cambridge  ;  and  against  one  there  was  the  note,  "  he 
that  sold  himself  to  Sathan  "  ;  and  another  seemed  to 
have  been  a  follower  of  Wickliffe  ;  and  they  had  mur 
dered  kings,  and  been  beheaded,  and  banished,  and 
what  not ;  so  that  the  age-long  life  of  this  ancient 
family  had  not  been  after  all  a  happy  or  very  prosper 
ous  one,  though  they  had  kept  their  estate,  in  one  or 
another  descendant,  since  the  Conquest.  It  was  not 
wholly  without  interest  that  Septimius  saw  that  this 
ancient  descent,  this  connection  with  noble  families, 
and  intermarriages  with  names,  some  of  which  he  rec 
ognized  as  known  in  English  history,  all  referred  to  his 
"own  family,  and  seemed  to  centre  in  himself,  the  last 
of  a  poverty-stricken  line,  which  had  dwindled  down 
into  obscurity,  and  into  rustic  labor  and  humble  toil, 


190  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

t 

reviving  in  him  a  little  ;  yet  how  little,  unless  he  ful 
filled  his  strange  purpose.  Was  it  not  better  worth 
his  while  to  take  this  English  position  here  so  strangely 
offered  him1?  He  had  apparently  slain  unwittingly 
the  only  person  who  could  have  contested  his  rights,  — 
the  young  man  who  had  so  strangely  brought  him  the 
hope  of  unlimited  life  at  the  same  time  that  he  was 
making  room  for  him  among  his  forefathers.  What  a 
change  in  his  lot  would  have  been  here,  for  there 
seemed  to  be  some  pretensions  to  a  title,  too,  from  a 
barony  which  was  floating  about  and  occasionally  mov 
ing  out  of  abeyancy ! 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Septimius  to  himself,  "I  may  here 
after  think  it  worth  while  to  assert  my  claim  to  these 
possessions,  to  this  position  amid  an  ancient  aristocra 
cy,  and  try  that  mode  of  life  for  one  generation.  Yet 
there  is  something  in  my  destiny  incompatible,  of 
course,  with  the  continued  possession  of  an  estate.  I 
must  be,  of  necessity,  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  changing  place  at  short  intervals,  disappearing 
suddenly  and  entirely ;  else  the  foolish,  short-lived 
multitude  and  mob  of  mortals  will  be  enraged  with 
one  who  seems  their  brother,  yet  whose  countenance 
will  never  be  furrowed  with  his  age,  nor  his  knees 
totter,  nor  his  force  be  abated ;  their  little  brevity  will 
be  rebuked  by  his  age-long  endurance,  above  whom 
the  oaken  roof-tree  of  a  thousand  years  would  crumble, 
while  still  he  would  be  hale  and  strong.  So  that 
this  house,  or  any  other,  would  be  but  a  resting- 
place  of  a  day,  and  then  I  must  away  into  another 
obscurity." 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  191 

With  almost  a  regret,  he  continued  to  look  over  the 
documents  until  he  reached  one  of  the  persons  record 
ed  in  the  line  of  pedigree,  —  a  worthy,  apparently,  of 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  to  whom  was  attributed  a  title 
of  Doctor  in  ^Utriusque  Juris;  and  against  his  name 
was  a  verse  of  Latin  written,  for  what  purpose  Sep- 
timius  knew  not,  for  on  reading  it,  it  appeared  to  have 
no  discoverable  appropriateness ;  but  suddenly  he  re 
membered  the  blotted  and  imperfect  hieroglyphical 
passage  in  the  recipe.  He  thought  an  instant,  and 
was  convinced  this  was  the  full  expression  and  out- 
writing  of  that  crabbed  little  mystery ;  and  that  here 
was  part  of  that  secret  writing  for  which  the  Age  of 
Elizabeth  was  so  famous  and  so  dexterous.  His  mind 
had  a  flash  of  light  upon  it,  and  from  that  moment  he 
was  enabled  to  read  not  only  the  recipe  but  the  rules, 
and  all  the  rest  of  that  mysterious  document,  in  a 
way  which  he  had  never  thought  of  before ;  to  discern 
that  it  was  not  to  be  taken  literally  and  simply,  but 
had  a  hidden  process  involved  in  it  that  made  the 
whole  thing  infinitely  deeper  than  he  had  hitherto 
deemed  it  to  be.  His  brain  reeled,  he  seemed  to  have 
taken  a  draught  of  some  liquor  that  opened  infinite 
depths  before  him,  he  could  scarcely  refrain  from 
giving  a  shout  of  triumphant  exultation,  the  house 
could  not  contain  him,  he  rushed  up  to  his  hill-top,  and 
there,  after  walking  swiftly  to  and  fro,  at  length  flung 
himself  on  the  little  hillock,  and  burst  forth,  as  if  ad 
dressing  him  who  slept  beneath. 

"  0  brother,  0  friend ! "  said  he,  "  I  thank  thee 
for  thy  matchless  beneficence  to  me ;  for  all  which  I 


192  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

rewarded  thee  with  this  little  spot  on  my  hill-top. 
Thou  wast  very  good,  very  kind.  It  would  not  have 
been  well  for  thee,  a  youth  of  fiery  joys  and  passions, 
loving  to  laugh,  loving  the  lightness  and  sparkling 
brilliancy  of  life,  to  take  this  boon  to -thyself;  for, 

0  brother  !  I  see,  I  see,   it   requires  a  strong  spirit, 
capable  of  much  lonely  endurance,  able  to  be  sufficient 
to  itself,  loving  not  too  much,  dependent  on  no  sweet 
ties  of  affection,    to  be  capable    of  the   mighty   trial 
which  now  devolves  on  me.     I  thank  thee,  0    kins 
man  !     Yet  thou,    I   feel,  hast  the  better  part,  who 
didst  so  soon  lie  down  to  rest,  who  hast  done  forever 
•with  this  troublesome  world,  which  it  is  mine  to  con 
template  from  age  to  age,  and  to  sum  up  the  meaning 
of  it.     Thou  art  disporting  thyself  in  other  spheres. 

1  enjoy  the  high,  severe,  fearful  office  of  living  here, 
and  of  being  the  minister  of  Providence  from  one  age 
to  many  successive  ones." 

In  this  manner  he  raved,  as  never  before,  in  a 
strain  of  exalted  enthusiasm,  securely  treading  on 
air,  and  sometimes  stopping  to  shout  aloud,  and 
feeling  as  if  he  should  burst  if  he  did  not  do  so ; 
and  his  voice  came  back  to  him  again  from  the  low 
hills  on  the  other  side  of  the  broad,  level  valley,  and 
out  of  the  woods  afar,  mocking  him  ;  or  as  if  it  were 
airy  spirits,  that  knew  how  it  was  all  to  be,  confirm 
ing  his  cry,  saying,  "  It  shall  be  so,"  "  Thou  hast 
found  it  at  last,"  "  Thou  art  immortal."  And  it 
seemed  as  if  Nature  were  inclined  to  celebrate  his 
triumph  over  herself;  for  above  the  woods  that 
crowned  the  hill  to  the  northward,  there  were  shoots 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  193 

and  streams  of  radiance,  a  white,  a  red,  a  many- 
colored  lustre,  blazing  up  high  towards  the  zenith, 
dancing  up,  flitting  down,  dancing  up  again ;  so 
that  it  seemed  as  if  spirits  were  keeping  a  revel 
there.  The  leaves  of  the  trees  on  the  hillside,  all 
except  the  evergreens,  had  now  mostly  fallen  with 
the  autumn ;  so  that  Septimius  was  seen  by  the  few 
passers-by,  in  the  decline  of  the  afternoon,  passing 
to  and  fro  along  his  path,  wildly  gesticulating;  and 
heard  to  shout  so  that  the  echoes  came  from  all 
directions  to  answer  him.  After  nightfall,  too,  in 
the  harvest  moonlight,  a  shadow  was  still  seen  passing 
there,  waving  its  arms  in  shadowy  triumph ;  so,  the 
next  day,  there  were  various  goodly  stories  afloat 
and  astir,  coming  out  of  successive  mouths,  more 
wondrous  at  each  birth  ;  the  simplest  form  of  the 
story  being,  that  Septimius  Felton  had  at  last  gone 
raving  mad  on  the  hill-top  that  he  was  so  fond  of 
haunting ;  and  those  who  listened  to  his  shrieks 
said  that  he  was  calling  to  the  Devil ;  and  some  said 
that  by  certain  exorcisms  he  had  caused  the  appear 
ance  of  a  battle  in  the  air,  charging  squadrons, 
cannon-flashes,  champions  encountering;  all  of  which 
foreboded  some  real  battle  to  be  fought  with  the 
enemies  of  the  country ;  and  as  the  battle  of  Mon- 
mouth  chanced  to  occur,  either  the  very  next  day,  or 
about  that  time,  this  was  supposed  to  be  either  caused 
or  foretold  by  Septimius's  eccentricities ;  and  as  the 
battle  was  not  very  favorable  to  our  arms,  the  patriot 
ism  of  Septimius  suffered  much  in  popular  estimation. 
But  he  knew  nothing,  thought  nothing,  cared 
9  M 


194  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

nothing  about  his  country,  or  his  country's  battles ; 
he  was  as  sane  as  he  had  been  for  a  year  past,  and 
was  wise  enough,  though  merely  by  instinct,  to 
throw  off  some  of  his  superfluous  excitement  by 
these  wild  gestures,  with  wild  shouts,  and  restless 
activity;  and  when  he  had  partly  accomplished  this 
he  returned  to  the  house,  and,  late  as  it  was,  kindled 
his  fire,  and  began  anew  the  processes  of  chemistry, 
now  enlightened  by  the  late  teachings.  A  new  agent 
seemed  to  him  to  mix  itself  up  with  his  toil  and  to 
forward  his  purpose  ;  something  helped  him  along ; 
everything  became  facile  to  his  manipulation,  clear  to 
his  thought.  In  this  way  he  spent  the  night,  and 
when  at  sunrise  he  let  in  the  eastern  light  upon  his 
study,  the  thing  was  done. 

Septimius  had  achieved  it.  That  is  to  say,  he  had 
succeeded  in  amalgamating  his  materials  so  that  they 
acted  upon  one  another,  and  in  accordance ;  and  had 
produced  a  result  that  had  a  subsistence  in  itself,  and 
a  right  to  be  ;  a  something  potent  and  substantial ; 
each  ingredient  contributing  its  part  to  form  a  new 
essence,  which  was  as  real  and  individual  as  any 
thing  it  was  formed  from.  But  in  order  to  perfect 
it,  there  was  necessity  that  the  powers  of  nature 
should  act  quietly  upon  it  through  a  month  of  sun 
shine  ;  that  the  moon,  too,  should  have  its  part  in 
the  production  ;  and  so  he  must  wait  patiently  for 
this.  Wait  !  surely  he  would  !  Had  he  not  time 
for  waiting?  Were  he  to  wait  till  old  age,  it  would 
not  be  too  much  ;  for  all  future  time  would  have  it  in 
charge  to  repay  him. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  195 

So  he  poured  the  inestimable  liquor  into  a  glass 
vase,  well  secured  from  the  air,  and  placed  it  in  the 
sunshine,  shifting  it  from  one  sunny  window  to 
another,  in  order  that  it  might  ripen ;  moving  it 
gently  lest  he  should  disturb  the  living  spirit  that 
he  knew  to  be  in  it.  And  he  watched  it  from  day 
to  day,  watched  the  reflections  in  it,  watched  its 
lustre,  which  seemed  to  him  to  grow  greater  day  by 
day,  as  if  it  imbibed  the  sunlight  into  it.  Never 
was  there  anything  so  bright  as  this.  It  changed 
its  hue,  too,  gradually,  being  now  a  rich  purple,  now 
A  crimson,  now  a  violet,  now  a  blue;  going  through 
all  these  prismatic  colors  without  losing  any  of  its 
brilliance,  and  never  was  there  such  a  hue  as  tho 
sunlight  took  in  falling  through  it  and  resting  on 
his  floor.  And  strange  and  beautiful  it  was,  too,  to 
look  through  this  medium  at  the  outer  world,  and 
see  how  it  was  glorified  and  made  anew,  and  did  not 
look  like  the  same  world,  although  there  were  all 
its  familiar  marks.  And  then,  past  his  window,  seen 
through  this,  went  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  on  saddle 
and  pillion,  jogging  to  meeting-house  or  market ; 
and  the  very  dog,  the  cow  coming  home  from  pasture, 
the  old  familiar  faces  of  his  childhood,  looked  differ 
ently.  And  so  at  last,  at  the  end  of  the  month,  it 
settled  into  a  most  deep  and  brilliant  crimson,  as  if  it 
were  the  essence  of  the  blood  of  the  young  man  whom 
he  had  slain ;  the  flower  being  now  triumphant,  it  had 
given  its  own  hue  to  the  whole  mass,  and  had  grown 
brighter  every  day ;  so  that  it  seemed  to  have  inher 
ent  light,  as  if  it  were  a  planet  by  itself,  a  heart  of 
crimson  fire  burning  within  it. 


196  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

And  when  this  had  been  done,  and  there  -was  no 
more  change,  showing  that  the  digestion  was  perfect, 
then  he  took  it  and  placed  it  where  the  changing 
moon  would  fall  upon  it ;  and  then  again  he  watched 
it,  covering  it  in  darkness  by  day,  revealing  it  to  the 
moon  by  night;  and  watching  it  here,  too,  through 
more  changes.  And  by  and  by  he  perceived  that 
the  deep  crimson  hue  was  departing,  —  not  fading ; 
we  cannot  say  that,  because  of  the  prodigious  lustre 
which  still  pervaded  it,  and  was  not  less  strong  than 
ever;  but  certainly  the  hue  became  fainter,  now  a 
rose-color,  now  fainter,  fainter  still,  till  there  was 
only  left  the  purest  whiteness  of  the  moon  itself;  a 
change  that  somewhat  disappointed  and  grieved  Sep- 
timius,  though  still  it  seemed  fit  that  the  water 
of  life  should  be  of  no  one  richness,  because  it  must 
combine  all.  As  the  absorbed  young  man  gazed 
through  the  lonely  nights  at  his  beloved  liquor,  he 
fancied  sometimes  that  he  could  see  wonderful  things 
in  the  crystal  sphere  of  the  vase ;  as  in  Doctor  Dee's 
magic  crystal  used  to  be  seen,  which  now  lies  in  the 
British  Museum;  representations,  it  might  be,  of 
things  in .  the  far  past,  or  in  the  further  future, 
scenes  in  which  he  himself  was  to  act,  persons  yet 
unborn,  the  beautiful  and  the  wise,  with  whom  he 
was  to  be  associated,  palaces  and  towers,  modes  of 
hitherto  unseen  architecture,  that  old  hall  in  England 
to  which  he  had  a  hereditary  right,  with  its  gables, 
and  its  smooth  lawn ;  the  witch-meetings  in  which 
his  ancestor  used  to  take  part ;  Aunt  Keziah  on  her 
d3ath-bed  ;  and,  flitting  through  all,  the  shade  of 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  197 

Sybil  Dacy,  eying  him  from  secret  nooks,  or  some 
remoteness,  with  her  peculiar  mischievous  smile, 
beckoning  him  into  the  sphere.  All  such  visions 
would  he  see,  and  then  become  aware  that  he  had 
been  in  a  dream,  superinduced  by  too  much  watch 
ing,  too  intent  thought ;  so  that  living  among  so 
many  dreams,  he  was  almost  afraid  that  he  should 
find  himself  waking  out  of  yet  another,  and  find  that 
the  vase  itself  and  the  liquid  it  contained  were  also 
dream-stuff.  But  no  ;  these  were  real. 

There  was  one  change  that  surprised  him,  although 
he  accepted  it  without  doubt,  and,  indeed,  it  did  im 
ply  a  wonderful  efficacy,  at  least  singularity,  in  the 
newly  converted  liquid.  It  grew  strangely  cool  in 
temperature  in  the  latter  part  of  his  watching  it. 
It  appeared  to  imbibe  its  coldness  from  the  cold, 
chaste  moon,  until  it  seemed  to  Septimius  that  it  was 
colder  than  ice  itself;  the  mist  gathered  upon  the 
crystal  vase  as  upon  a  tumbler  of  iced  water  in  a 
warm  room.  Some  say  it  actually  gathered  thick 
with  frost,  crystallized  into  a  thousand  fantastic  and 
beautiful  shapes,  but  this  I  do  not  know  so  well. 
Only  it  was  very  cold.  Septimius  pondered  upon  it, 
and  thought  he  saw  that  life  itself  was  cold,  indi 
vidual  in  its  being,  a  high,  pure  essence,  chastened 
from  all  heats ;  cold,  therefore,  and  therefore  invigo 
rating. 

Thus  much,  inquiring  deeply,  and  with  painful  re 
search  into  the  liquid  which  Septimius  concocted, 
have  I  been  able  to  learn  about  it,  —  its  aspect,  itsf 
properties  ;  and  now  I  suppose  it  to  be  quite  perfect, 


198  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

and  that  nothing  remains  but  to  put  it  to  such  use 
as  he  had  so  long  been  laboring  for.  But  this,  some 
how  or  other,  he  found  in  himself  a  strong  reluctance 
to  do ;  he  paused,  as  it  were,  at  the  point  where  his 
pathway  separated  itself  from  that  of  other  men,  and 
meditated  whether  it  were  worth  while  to  give  up 
everything  that  Providence  had  provided,  and  take 
instead  only  this  lonely  gift  of  immortal  life.  Not 
that  he  ever  really  had  any  doubt  about  it  ;  no,  in 
deed  ;  but  it  was  his  security,  his  consciousness  that 
he  held  the  bright  sphere  of  all  futurity  in  his  hand, 
that  made  him  dally  a  little,  now  that  he  could  quaff 
immortality  as  soon  as  he  liked. 

Besides,  now  that  he  looked  forward  from  the 
verge  of  mortal  destiny,  the  path  before  him  seemed 
so  very  lonely.  Might  he  not  seek  some  one  own 
friend  —  one  single  heart  —  before  he  took  the  final 
step  1  There  was  Sybil  Dacy !  0,  what  bliss,  if 
that  pale  girl  might  set  out  with  him  on  his  journey  ! 
how  sweet,  how  sweet,  to  wander  with  her  through 
the  places  else  so  desolate  !  for  he  could  but  half 
see,  half  know  things,  without  her  to  help  him.  And 
perhaps  it  might  be  so.  She  must  already  know,  or 
strongly  suspect,  that  he  was  engaged  in  some  deep, 
mysterious  research ;  it  might  be  that,  with  her 
sources  of  mysterious  knowledge  among  her  legen 
dary  lore,  she  knew  of  this.  Then,  0,  to  think  of 
those  dreams  which  lovers  have  always  had,  when 
their  new  love  makes  the  old  earth  seem  so  happy 
and  glorious  a  place,  that  not  a  thousand  nor  an 
endless  succession  of  years  can  exhaust  it,  —  all  those 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  199 

realized  for  him  and  her  !  If  this  could  not  be,  what 
should  he  do  ?  Would  he  venture  onward  into  such 
a  wintry  futurity,  symbolized,  perhaps,  by  the  cold 
ness  of  the  crystal  goblet  1  He  shivered  at  the 
thought. 

Now,  what  had  passed  between  Septimius  and 
Sybil  Dacy  is  not  upon  record,  only  that  one  day  they 
were  walking  together  on  the  hill-top,  or  sitting  by 
the  little  hillock,  and  talking  earnestly  together. 
Sybil's  face  was  a  little  flushed  with  some  excite 
ment,  and  really  she  looked  very  beautiful ;  and  Sep- 
timius's  dark  face,  too,  had  a  solemn  triumph  in  it 
that  made  him  also  beautiful ;  so  rapt  he  was  after 
all  those  watchings,  and  emaciations,  and  the  pure, 
unworldly,  self-denying  life  that  he  had  spent.  They 
talked  as  if  there  were  some  foregone  conclusion  on 
which  they  based  what  they  said. 

"  Will  you  not  be  weary  in  the  time  that  we  shall 
spend  together  1 "  asked  he. 

"  0  no,"  said  Sybil,  smiling,  "  I  am  sure  that  it  will 
be  very  full  of  enjoyment.'' 

"Yes,"  said  Septimius,  "though  now  I  must  re 
mould  my  anticipations ;  for  I  have  only  dared,  hith 
erto,  to  map  out  a  solitary  existence." 

"  And  how  did  you  do  that  1 "  asked  Sybil. 

"  0,  there  is  nothing  that  would  come  amiss/' 
answered  Septimius ;  "  for,  truly,  as  I  have  lived 
apart  from  men,  yet  it  is  .really  not  because  I  have 
no  taste  for  whatever  humanity  includes ;  but  I  would 
fain,  if  I  might,  live  everybody's  life  at  once,  or,  since 
that  may  not  be,  each  in  succession.  I  would  try 


200  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

the  life  of  power,  ruling  men  ;  but  that  might  come 
later,  after  I  had  had  long  experience  of  men,  and 
had  lived  through  much  history,  and  had  seen,  as 
a  disinterested  observer,  how  men  might  best  be  in 
fluenced  for  their  own  good.  I  would  be  a  great 
traveller  at  first ;  and  as  a  man  newly  coming  into 
possession  of  an  estate,  goes  over  it,  and  views  each 
separate  field  and  wood-lot,  and  whatever  features  it 
contains,  so  will  I,  whose  the  world  is,  because  I 
possess  it  forever ;  whereas  all  others  are  but  tran 
sitory  guests.  So  will  I  wander  over  this  world  of 
mine,  and  be  acquainted  with  all  its  shores,  seas, 
rivers,  mountains,  fields,  and  the  various  peoples  who 
inhabit  them,  and  to  whom  it  is  my  purpose  to  be 
a  benefactor ;  for  think  not,  dear  Sybil,  that  I  sup 
pose  this  great  lot  of  mine  to  have  devolved  upon 
me  without  great  duties,  —  heavy  and  difficult  to 
fulfil,  though  glorious  in  their  adequate  fulfilment. 
But  for  all  this  there  will  be  time.  In  a  century  I 
shall  partially  have  seen  this  earth,  and  known  at 
least  its  boundaries,  —  have  gotten  for  myself  the  out 
line,  to  be  filled  up  hereafter." 

"  And  I,  too,"  said  Sybil,  "  will  have  my  duties 
and  labors  ;  for  while  you  are  wandering  about  among 
men,  I  will  go  among  women,  and  observe  and  con 
verse  with  them,  from  the  princess  to  the  peasant 
girl ;  and  will  find  out  what  is  the  matter,  that 
woman  gets  so  large  a  share  of  human  misery  laid 
on  her  weak  shoulders.  I  will  see  why  it  is  that, 
whether  she  be  a  royal  princess,  she  has  to  be  sacri 
ficed  to  matters  of  state,  or  a  cottage  girl,  still  some- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  201 

how  the  thing  not  fit  for  her  is  done ;  and  whether 
there  is  or  no  some  deadly  curse  on  woman,  so  that 
she  has  nothing  to  do,  and  nothing  to  enjoy,  but 
only  to  be  wronged  by  man,  and  still  to  love  him, 
and  despise  herself  for  it,  —  to  be  shaky  in  her 
revenges.  And  then  if,  after  all  this  investigation, 
it  turns  out  —  as  I  suspect  —  that  woman  is  not 
capable  of  being  helped,  that  there  is  something  in 
herent  in  herself  that  makes  it  hopeless  to  struggle 
for  her  redemption,  then  what  shall  I  do  1  Nay,  I 
know  not,  unless  to  preach  to  the  sisterhood  that  they 
all  kill  their  female  children  as  fast  as  they  are  born, 
and  then  let  the  generations  of  men  manage  as  they 
can !  Woman,  so  feeble  and  crazy  in  body,  fair 
enough  sometimes,  but  full  of  infirmities ;  not  strong, 
with  nerves  prone  to  every  pain ;  ailing,  full  of  little 
weaknesses,  more  contemptible  than  great  ones ! " 

"  That  would  be  a  dreary  end,  Sybil,"  said  Sep- 
timius.  "  But  I  trust  that  we  shall  be  able  to  hush 
up  this  weary  and  perpetual  wail  of  womankind  on 
easier  terms  than  that.  Well,  dearest  Sybil,  after 
we  have  spent  a  hundred  years  in  examining  into  the 
real  state  of  mankind,  and  another  century  in  de 
vising  and  putting  in  execution  remedies  for  his 
ills,  until  our  maturer  thought  has  time  to  perfect 
his  cure,  we  shall  then  have  earned  a  little  play 
time,  —  a  century  of  pastime,  in  which  we  will  search 
out  whatever  joy  can  be  had  by  thoughtful  people, 
and  that  childlike  sportiveness  which  comes  out  of 
growing  wisdom,  and  enjoyment  of  every  kind.  We 
will  gather  about  us  everything  beautiful  and  stately, 
9* 


202  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

a  great  palace,  for  we  shall  then  be  so  experienced 
that  all  riches  will  be  easy  for  us  to  get ;  with  rich 
furniture,  pictures,  statues,  and  all  royal  ornaments ; 
and  side  by  side  with  this  life  we  will  have  a  little 
cottage,  and  see  which  is  the  happiest,  for  this  has 
always  been  a  dispute.  For  this  century  we  will 
neither  toil  nor  spin,  nor  think  of  anything  beyond 
the  day  that  is  passing  over  us.  There  is  time 
enough  to  do  all  that  we  have  to  do." 

"  A  hundred  years  of  play  !  Will  not  that  be  tire 
some  1 "  said  Sybil. 

"  If  it  is,"  said  Septimius,  "  the  next  century 
shall  make  up  for  it ;  for  then  we  will  contrive 
deep  philosophies,  take  up  one  theory  after  another, 
and  find  out  its  hollowness  and  inadequacy,  and 
fling  it  aside,  the  rotten  rubbish  that  they  all  are, 
until  we  have  strewn  the  whole  realm  of  human 
thought  with  the  broken  fragments,  all  smashed  up. 
And  then,  on  this  great  mound  of  broken  potsherds 
(like  that  great  Monte  Testaccio,  which  we  will  go 
to  Rome  to  see),  we  will  build  a  system  that  shall 
stand,  and  by  which  mankind  shall  look  far  into  the 
ways  of  Providence,  and  find  practical  uses  of  the 
deepest  kind  in  what  it  has  thought  merely  specula 
tion.  And  then,  when  the  hundred  years  are  over, 
and  this  great  work  done,  we  will  still  be  so  free  in 
mind,  that  we  shall  see  the  emptiness  of  our  own 
theory,  though  men  see  only  its  truth.  And  so,  if 
we  like  more  of  this  pastime,  then  shall  another  and 
another  century,  and  as  many  more  as  we  like,  be 
spent  in  the  same  way." 


SEPTIMIUS   FELTON.  203 

"And  after  that  another  play-day?"  asked  Sybil 
Dacy. 

"  Yes,"  said  Septiraius,  "  only  it  shall  not  be 
called  so ;  for  the  next  century  we  will  get  ourselves 
made  rulers  of  the  earth ;  and  knowing  men  so  well, 
and  having  so  wrought  our  theories  of  government 
and  what  not,  we  will  proceed  to  execute  them,  — 
which  will  be  as  easy  to  us  as  a  child's  arrangement 
of  its  dolls.  We  will  smile  superior,  to  see  what  a 
facile  thing  it  is  to  make  a  people  happy.  In  our 
reign  of  a  hundred  years,  we  shall  have  time  to 
extinguish  errors,  and  make  the  world  see  the  ab 
surdity  of  them ;  to  substitute  other  methods  of 
government  for  the  old,  bad  ones;  to  fit  the  people 
to  govern  itself,  to  do  with  little  government,  to  do 
with  none ;  and  when  this  is  effected,  we  will  vanish 
from  our  loving  people,  and  be  seen  no  more,  but  be 
reverenced  as  gods,  —  we,  meanwhile,  being  overlooked, 
and  smiling  to  ourselves,  amid  the  very  crowd  that  is 
looking  for  us." 

"  I  intend,"  said  Sybil,  making  this  wild  talk 
wilder  by  that  petulance  which  she  so  often  showed, 
—  "I  intend  to  introduce  a  new  fashion  of  dress  when 
I  am  queen,  and  that  shall  be  my  part  of  the  great 
reform  which  you  are  going  to  make.  And  for  my 
crown,  I  intend  to  have  it  of  flowers,  in  which  that 
strange  crimson  one  shall  be  the  chief ;  and  when  I 
vanish,  this  flower  shall  remain  behind,  and  perhaps 
they  shall  have  a  glimpse  of  me  wearing  it  in  the 
crowd.  Well,  what  next?" 

"After    this,"   said    Septimius,    "having    seen   so 


204  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

much  of  affairs,  and  having  lived  so  many  hundred 
years,  I  will  sit  down  and  write  a  history,  such  as 
histories  ought  to  be,  and  never  have  been.  And  it 
shall  be  so  wise,  and  so  vivid,  and  so  self-evidently 
true,  that  people  shall  be  .convinced  from  it  that 
there  is  some  undying  one  among  them,  because  only 
an  eye-witness  could  have  written  it,  or  could  have 
gained  so  much  wisdom  as  was  needful  for  it." 

"  And  for  my  part  in  the  history,"  said  Sybil,  "  I 
will  record  the  various  lengths  of  women's  waists,  and 
the  fashion  of  their  sleeves.  What  next  1 " 

"By  this  time,"  said  Septimius,  - — "how  many 
hundred  years  have  we  now  lived  1  —  by  this  time,  I 
shall  have  pretty  well  prepared  myself  for  what  I 
have  been  contemplating  from  the  first.  I  will  be 
come  a  religious  teacher,  and  promulgate  a  faith, 
and  prove  it  by  prophecies  and  miracles  ;  for  my 
long  experience  will  enable  me  to  do  the  first,  and 
the  acquaintance  which  I  shall  have  formed  with  the 
mysteries  of  science  will  put  the  latter  at  my  fingers' 
ends.  So  I  will  be  a  prophet,  a  greater  than  Ma 
homet,  and  will  put  all  man's  hopes  into  my  doctrine, 
and  make  him  good,  holy,  happy ;  and  he  shall  put 
up  his  prayers  to  his  Creator,  and  find  them  answered, 
because  they  shall  be  wise,  and  accompanied  with  ef 
fort.  This  will  be  a  great  work,  and  may  earn  me 
another  rest  and  pastime." 

\He  would  see,  in  one  age,  the  column  raised  in  mem 
ory  of  some  great  deed  of  his  in  a  former  onel\ 

"  And  what  shall  that  be  T'  asked  Sybil  Dacy. 

"Why,"   said   Septimius,   looking  askance  at  her, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  205 

and  speaking  with  a  certain  hesitation,  "  I  have 
learned,  Sybil,  that  it  is  a  weary  toil  for  a  man 
to  be  always  good,  holy,  and  upright.  In  my  life 
as  a  sainted  prophet,  I  shall  have  somewhat  too 
much  of  this;  it  will  be  enervating  and  sickening, 
and  I  shall  need  another  kind  of  diet.  So,  in 
the  next  hundred  years,  Sybil,  —  in  that  one  little 
century,  —  methinks  I  would  fain  be  what  men  call 
wicked.  How  can  I  know  my  brethren,  unless  I  do 
that  once  1  I  would  experience  all.  Imagination  is 
only  a  dream.  I  can  imagine  myself  a  murderer,  and 
all  other  modes  of  crime  ;  but  it  leaves  no  real  impres 
sion  on  the  heart.  I  must  live  these  things." 

[The  rampant  unrestraint,  which  is  the  characteristic 
of  wickedness^ 

"Good,"  said  Sybil,  quietly;  "and  I  too." 

"  And  thou  too  !  "  exclaimed  Septimius.  "  Not 
so,  Sybil.  I  would  reserve  thee,  good  and  pure,  so 
that  there  may  be  to  me  the  means  of  redemption,  — 
some  stable  hold  in  the  moral  confusion  that  I  will 
create  around  myself,  whereby  I  shall  by  and  by 
get  back  into  order,  virtue,  and  religion.  Else  all 
is  lost,  and  I  may  become  a  devil,  and  make  my 
own  hell  around  me ;  so,  Sybil,  do  thou  be  good 
forever,  and  not  fall  nor  slip  a  moment.  Promise 
me!" 

"  We  will  consider  about  that  in  some  other  cen 
tury,"  replied  Sybil,  composedly.  "There  is  time 
enough  yet.  What  next  1 " 

"  Nay,  this  is  enough  for  the  present,"  said  Sep 
timius.  "  New  vistas  will  open  themselves  before  us 


206  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

continually,  as  we  go  onward.  How  idle  to  think 
that  one  little  lifetime  would  exhaust  the  world ! 
After  hundreds  of  centuries,  I  feel  as  if  we  might 
still  be  on  the  threshold.  There  is  the  material 
world,  for  instance,  to  perfect ;  to  draw  out  the 
powers  of  nature,  so  that  man  shall,  as  it  were,  give 
life  to  all  modes  of  matter,  and  make  them  his  minis 
tering  servants.  Swift  ways  of  travel,  by  earth, 
sea,  and  air ;  machines  for  doing  whatever  the 
hand  of  man  now  does,  so  that  we  shall  do  all  but 
put  souls  into  our  wheel-work  and  watch-work  j  the 
modes  of  making  night  into  day ;  of  getting  control 
over  the  weather  and  the  seasons  ;  the  virtues  of 
plants  ;  —  these  are  some  of  the  easier  things  thou 
shalt  help  me  do." 

"  I  have  no  taste  for  that,"  said  Sybil,  "  unless  I 
could  make  an  embroidery  worked  of  steel." 

"  And  so,  Sybil,"  continued  Septimius,  pursuing 
his  strain  of  solemn  enthusiasm,  intermingled  as  it 
was  with  wild,  excursive  vagaries,  "we  will  go  on 
as  many  centuries  as  we  choose.  Perhaps  —  yet  I 
think  not  so  —  perhaps,  however,  in  the  course  of 
lengthened  time,  we  may  find  that  the  world  is  the 
same  always,  and  mankind  the  same,  and  all  pos 
sibilities  of  human  fortune  the  same;  so  that  by 
and  by  we  shall  discover  that  the  same  old  scenery 
serves  the  world's  stage  in  all  ages,  and  that  the 
story  is  always  the  same ;  yes,  and  the  actors  always 
the  same,  though  none  but  we  can  be  aware  of 
it ;  and  that  the  actors  and  spectators  would  grow 
weary  of  it,  were  they  not  bathed  in  forgetful  sleep, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  207 

and  so  think  themselves  new  made  in  each  successive 
lifetime.  We  may  find  that  the  stuff  of  the  world's 
drama,  and  the  passions  which  seem  to  play  in  it, 
have  a  monotony,  when  once  we  have  tried  them ; 
that  in  only  once  trying  them,  and  viewing  them, 
we  find  out  their  secret,  and  that  afterwards  the 
show  is  too  superficial  to  arrest  our  attention.  As 
dramatists  and  novelists  repeat  their  plots,  so  does 
man's  life  repeat  itself,  and  at  length  grows  stale. 
This  is  what,  in  my  desponding  moments,  I  have 
sometimes  suspected.  What  to  do,  if  this  be  so  1 " 

"  Nay,  that  is  a  serious  consideration,"  replied 
Sybil,  assuming  an  air  of  mock  alarm,  "  if  you  really 
think  we  shall  be  tired  of  life,  whether  or  no." 

"  I  do  not  think  it,  Sybil,"  replied  Septimius. 
"  By  much  musing  on  this  matter,  I  have  convinced 
myself  that  man  is  not  capable  of  debarring  himself 
utterly  from  death,  since  it  is  evidently  a  remedy 
for  many  evils  that  nothing  else  would  cure.  This 
means  that  we  have  discovered  of  removing  death  to 
an  indefinite  distance  is  not  supernatural ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  — 
the  very  perfection  of  the  natural,  since  it  consists 
in  applying  the  powers  and  processes  of  Nature  to  the 
prolongation  of  the  existence  of  man,  her  most  per 
fect  handiwork;  and  this  could  only  be  done  by 
entire  accordance  and  co-effort  with  nature.  There 
fore  Nature  is  not  changed,  and  death  remains  as  one 
of  her  steps,  just  as  heretofore.  Therefore,  when 
we  have  exhausted  the  world,  whether  by  going 
through  its  apparently  vast  variety,  or  by  satisfying 


208  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

ourselves  that  it  is  all  a  repetition  of  one  thing, 
we  will  call  death  as  the  friend  to  introduce  us  to 
something  new." 

[He  ivould  write  a  poem,  or  other  great  work,  inap 
preciable  at  first,  and  live  to  see  it  famous,  —  himself 
among  his  own  posterity '.] 

"  0,  insatiable  love  of  life ! "  exclaimed  Sybil,  look 
ing  at  him  with  strange  pity.  "  Canst  thou  not  con 
ceive  that  mortal  brain  and  heart  might  at  length  be 
content  to  sleep  ? " 

"  Never,  Sybil ! "  replied  Septimius,  with  horror. 
"My  spirit  delights  in  the  thought  of  an  infinite 
eternity.  Does  not  thine]" 

"One  little  interval  —  a  few  centuries  only  —  of 
dreamless  sleep,"  said  Sybil,  pleadingly.  "Cannot 
you  allow  me  that?" 

"I  fear,"  said  Septimius,  "our  identity  would 
change  in  that  repose ;  it  would  be  a  Lethe  between 
the  two  parts  of  our  being,  and  with  such  discon 
nection  a  continued  life  would  be  equivalent  to  a  new 
one,  and  therefore  valueless." 

In  such  talk,  snatching  in  the  fog  at  the  frag 
ments  of  philosophy,  they  continued  fitfully;  Sep 
timius  calming  down  his  enthusiasm  thus,  which 
otherwise  might  have  burst  forth  in  madness,  affright 
ing  the  quiet  little  village  with  the  marvellous  things 
about  which  they  mused.  Septimius  could  not  quite 
satisfy  himself  whether  Sybil  Dacy  shared  in  his 
belief  of  the  success  of  his  experiment,  and  was  confi 
dent,  as  he  was,  that  he  held  in  his  control  the  means 
~£  unlimited  life ;  neither  was  he  sure  that  she  loved 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  209 

him,  — loved  him  well  enough  to  undertake  with  him 
the  long  march  that  he  propounded  to  her,  making  a 
union  an  affair  of  so  vastly  more  importance  than  it  is 
in  the  brief  lifetime  of  other  mortals.  But  he  deter 
mined  to  let  her  drink  the  invaluable  draught  along 
with  him,  and  to  trust  to  the  long  future,  and  the 
better  opportunities  that  time  would  give  him,  and 
his  outliving  all  rivals,  and  the  loneliness  which  an 
undying  life  would  throw  around  her,  without  him,  as 
the  pledges  of  his  success. 

And  now  the  happy  day  had  come  for  the  cele 
bration  of  Robert  Hagburn's  marriage  with  pretty 
Rose  Garfield,  the  brave  with  the  fair;  and,  as 
usual,  the  ceremony  was  to  take  place  in  the  evening, 
and  at  the  house  of  the  bride  :  and  preparations  were 
made  accordingly  ;  the  wedding-cake,  which  the  bride's 
own  fair  hands  had  mingled  with  her  tender  hopes, 
and  seasoned  it  with  maiden  fears,  so  that  its  com 
position  was  as  much  ethereal  as  sensual;  and  the 
neighbors  and  friends  were  invited,  and  came  with 
their  best  wishes  and  good-will.  For  Rose  shared  not 
at  all  the  distrust,  the  suspicion,  or  whatever  it  was, 
that  had  waited  on  the  true  branch  of  Septimius's 
family,  in  one  shape  or  another,  ever  since  the  mem 
ory  of  man;  and  all  —  except,  it  might  be,  some  dis 
appointed  damsels  who  had  hoped  to  win  Robert 
Hagburn  for  themselves  —  rejoiced  at  the  approaching 
union  of  this  fit  couple,  and  wished  them  happiness. 

Septimius,  too,  accorded  his  gracious  consent  to 
the  union,  and  while  he  thought  within  himself  that 


210  SEPTIMIUS   FELTON. 

such  a  brief  union  was  not  worth  the  trouble  and  feel 
ing  which  his  sister  and  her  lover  wasted  on  it,  still 
he  wished  them  happiness.  As  he  compared  their 
brevity  with  his  long  duration,  he  smiled  at  their 
little  fancies  of  loves,  of  which  he  seemed  to  see  the 
end ;  the  flower  of  a  brief  summer,  blooming  beau 
tifully  enough,  and  shedding  its  leaves,  the  fragrance 
of  which  would  linger  a  little  while  in  his  memory, 
and  then  be  gone.  He  wondered  how  far  in  the 
coming  centuries  he  should  remember  this  wedding 
of  his  sister  Rose ;  perhaps  he  would  meet,  five 
hundred  years  hence,  some  descendant  of  the  mar 
riage,  —  a  fair  girl,  bearing  the  traits  of  his  sister's 
fresh  beauty ;  a  young  man,  recalling  the  strength  and 
manly  comeliness  of  Robert  Hagburn,  —  and  could 
claim  acquaintance  and  kindred.  He  would  be  the 
guardian,  from  generation  to  generation,  of  this  race ; 
their  ever-reappearing  friend  at  times  of  need;  and 
meeting  them  from  age  to  age,  would  find  traditions 
of  himself  growing  poetical  in  the  lapse  of  time ;  so 
that  he  would  smile  at  seeing  his  features  look  so 
much  more  majestic  in  their  fancies  than  in  reality. 
So  all  along  their  course,  in  the  history  of  the  family, 
he  would  trace  himself,  and  by  his  traditions  he  would 
make  them  acquainted  with  all  their  ancestors,  and  so 
still  be  warmed  by  kindred  blood. 

And  Robert  Hagburn,  full  of  the  life  of  the  moment, 
warm  with  generous  blood,  came  in  a  new  uniform, 
looking  fit  to  be  the  founder  of  a  race  who  should  look 
back  to  a  hero  sire.  He  greeted  Septimius  as  a 
brother.  The  minister,  too,  came,  of  course,  and 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  211 

mingled  with  the  throng,  with  decorous  aspect,  and 
greeted  Septimius  with  more  formality  than  he  had 
been  wont ;  for  Septimius  had  insensibly  withdrawn 
himself  from  the  minister's  intimacy,  as  he  got  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  enthusiasm  of  his  own  cause. 
Besides,  the  minister  did  not  fail  to  see  that  his  once 
devoted  scholar  had  contracted  habits  of  study  into 
the  secrets  of  which  he  himself  was  not  admitted,  and 
that  he  no  longer  alluded  to  studies  for  the  ministry ; 
and  he  was  inclined  to  suspect  that  Septimius  had 
unfortunately  allowed  infidel  ideas  to  assail,  at  least, 
if  not  to  overcome,  that  fortress  of  firm  faith  which  he 
had  striven  to  found  and  strengthen  in  his  mind,  —  a 
misfortune  frequently  befalling  speculative  and  imagi 
native  and  melancholic  persons,  like  Septimius,  whom 
the  Devil  is  all  the  time  planning  to  assault,  because 
he  feels  confident  of  having  a  traitor  in  the  garrison. 
The  minister  had  heard  that  this  was  the  fashion  of 
Septimius's  family,  and  that  even  the  famous  divine, 
who,  in  his  eyes,  was  the  glory  of  it,  had  had  his  sea 
son  of  wild  infidelity  in  his  youth,  before  grace  touched 
him ;  and  had  always  thereafter,  throughout  his  long 
and  pious  life,  been  subject  to  seasons  of  black  and 
sulphurous  despondency,  during  which  he  disbelieved 
the  faith  which,  at  other  times,  he  preached  so 
powerfully. 

"Septimius,  my  young  friend,"  said  he,  "are  you 
yet  ready  to  be  a  preacher  of  the  truth ?" 

"Not  yet,  reverend  pastor,"  said  Septimius,  smil 
ing  at  the  thought  of  the  day  before,  that  the  career 
of  a  prophet  would  be  one  that  he  should  some  time 


212  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

assume.  (i  There  will  be  time  enough  to  preach  the 
truth  when  I  better  know  it." 

"  You  do  not  look  as  if  you  knew  it  so  well  as 
formerly,  instead  of  better,"  said  his  reverend  friend, 
looking  into  the  deep  furrows  of  his  brow,  and  into 
his  wild  and  troubled  eyes. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Septimius.  "There  is  time 
yet." 

These  few  words  passed  amid  the  bustle  and  mur 
mur  of  the  evening,  while  the  guests  were  assembling, 
and  all  were  awaiting  the  marriage  with  that  interest 
which  the  event  continually  brings  with  it,  common  as 
it  is,  so  that  nothing  but  death  is  commoner.  Every 
body  congratulated  the  modest  Rose,  who  looked 
quiet  and  happy ;  and  so  she  stood  up  at  the  proper 
time,  and  the  minister  married  them  with  a  certain 
fervor  and  individual  application,  that  made  them  feel 
they  were  married  indeed.  Then  there  ensued  a  sal 
utation  of  the  bride,  the  first  to  kiss  her  being  the 
minister,  and  then  some  respectable  old  justices  and 
farmers,  each  with  his  friendly  smile  and  joke.  Then 
went  round  the  cake  and  wine,  and  other  good  cheer, 
and  the  hereditary  jokes  with  which  brides  used  to  be 
assailed  in  those  days.  I  think,  too,  there  was  a 
dance,  though  how  the  couples  in  the  reel  found 
space  to  foot  it  in  the  little  room,  I  cannot  imagine ; 
at  any  rate,  there  was  a  bright  light  out  of  the 
windows,  gleaming  across  the  road,  and  such  a  sound 
of  the  babble  of  numerous  voices  and  merriment,  that 
travellers  passing  by,  on  the  lonely  Lexington  road, 
wished  they  were  of  the  party;  and  one  or  two  of 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  213 

them  stopped  and  went  in,  and  saw  the  new-made 
bride,  drank  to  her  health,  and  took  a  piece  of  the 
wedding-cake  home  to  dream  upon. 

[/£  is  to  be  observed  that  Rose  had  requested  of  her 
friend,  Sybil  Dacy,  to  act  as  one  of  her  bridesmaids,  of 
whom  she  had  only  the  modest  number  of  two ;  and  the 
strange  girl  declined,  sayin.g  that  her  intermeddling  would 
bring  ill-fortune  to  the  marriage.] 

"  Why  do  you  talk  such  nonsense,  Sybil  3 "  asked 
Rose.  "  You  love  me,  I  am  sure,  and  wish  me  well; 
and  your  smile,  such  as  it  is,  will  be  the  promise  of 
prosperity,  and  I  wish  for  it  on  my  wedding-day." 

"I  am  an  ill-fate,  a  sinister  demon,  Rose;  a  thing 
that  has  sprung  out  of  a  grave ;  and  you  had  better 
not  entreat  me  to  twine  my  poison  tendrils  round 
your  destinies.  You  would  repent  it." 

"  0,  hush,  hush  ! "  said  Rose,  putting  her  hand 
over  her  friend's  mouth.  "  Naughty  one  !  you  can 
bless  me,  if  you  will,  only  you  are  wayward." 

"  Bless  you,  then,  dearest  Rose,  and  all  happiness 
on  your  marriage  !  " 

Septimius  had  been  duly  present  at  the  marriage, 
and  kissed  his  sister  with  moist  eyes,  it  is  said,  and 
a  solemn  smile,  as  he  gave  her  into  the  keeping  of 
Robert  Hagburn;  and  there  was  something  in  the 
words  he  then  used  that  afterwards  dwelt  on  her 
mind,  as  if  they  had  a  meaning  in  them  that  asked 
to  be  sought  into,  and  needed  reply. 

"There,  Rose,"  he  had  said,  "I  have  made  my 
self  ready  for  my  destiny.  I  have  no  ties  any  more, 
and  may  set  forth  on  my  path  without  scruple," 


214  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  Am  I  not  your  sister  still,  Septimius  1 "  said  she, 
shedding  a  tear  or  two. 

"  A  married  woman  is  no  sister ;  nothing  but  a 
married  woman  till  she  becomes  a  mother ;  and  then 
what  shall  I  have  to  do  with  you  1 " 

He  spoke  with  a  certain  eagerness  to  prove  his 
case,  which  Rose  could  not  understand,  but  which 
was  probably  to  justify  himself  in  severing,  as  he 
was  about  to  do,  the  link  that  connected  him  with 
his  race,  and  making  for  himself  an  exceptional  des 
tiny,  which,  if  it  did  not  entirely  insulate  him,  would 
at  least  create  new  relations  with  all.  There  he  stood, 
poor  fellow,  looking  on  the  mirthful  throng,  not  in 
exultation,  as  might  have  been  supposed,  but  with  a 
strange  sadness  upon  him.  It  seemed  to  him,  at  that 
final  moment,  as  if  it  were  Death  that  linked  to 
gether  all ;  yes,  and  so  gave  the  warmth  to  all.  Wed 
lock  itself  seemed  a  brother  of  Death ;  wedlock,  and 
its  -sweetest  hopes,  its  holy  companionship,  its  mys 
teries,  and  all  that  warm  mysterious  brotherhood  that 
is  between  men ;  passing  as  they  do  from  mystery  to 
mystery  in  a  little  gleam  of  light ;  that  wild,  sweet 
charm  of  uncertainty  and  temporariness,  —  how  lovely 
it  made  them  all,  how  innocent,  even  the  worst  of 
them  ;  how  hard  and  prosaic  was  his  own  situation  in 
comparison  to  theirs.  He  felt  a  gushing  tenderness 
for  them,  as  if  he  would  have  flung  aside  his  endless 
life,  and  rushed  among  them,  saying,  — 

"  Embrace  me  !  I  am  still  one  of  you,  and  will 
not  leave  you  !  Hold  me  fast ! " 

After   this   it  was   not   particularly  observed   that 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  215 

both  Septimius  and  Sybil  Dacy  had  disappeared  from 
the  party,  which,  however,  went  on  no  less  merrily 
without  them.  In  truth,  the  habits  of  Sybil  Dacy 
were  so  wayward,  and  little  squared  by  general  rules, 
that  nobody  wondered  or  tried  to  account  for  them  j 
and  as  for  Septimius,  he  was  such  a  studious  man, 
so  little  accustomed  to  mingle  with  his  fellow-citizens 
on  any  occasion,  that  it  was  rather  wondered  at  that 
he  should  have  spent  so. large  a  part  of  a  sociable 
evening  with  them,  than  that  he  should  now  retire. 

After  they  were  gone  the  party  received  an  un 
expected  addition,  being  no  other  than  the  excellent 
Doctor  Portsoaken,  who  came  to  the  door,  announcing 
that  he  had  just  arrived  on  horseback  from  Boston, 
and  that,  his  object  being  to  have  an  interview  with 
Sybil  Dacy,  he  had  been  to  Robert  Hagburn's  house 
in  quest  of  her;  but,  learning  from  the  old  grand 
mother  that  she  was  here,  he  had  followed. 

Not  finding  her,  he  evinced  no  alarm,  but  was 
easily  induced  to  sit  down  among  the  merry  com 
pany,  and  partake  of  some  brandy,  which,  with  other 
liquors,  Robert  had  provided  in  sufficient  abundance ; 
and  that  being  a  day  when  man  had  not  learned  to 
fear  the  glass,  the  doctor  found  them  all  in  a  state 
of  hilarious  chat.  Taking  out  his  German  pipe,  he 
joined  the  group  of  smokers  in  the  great  chimney- 
corner,  and  entered  into  conversation  with  them, 
laughing  and  joking,  and  mixing  up  his  jests  with 
that  mysterious  suspicion  which  gave  so  strange  a 
character  to  his  intercourse. 

"  It   is    good   fortune,    Mr.    Hagburn,"    quoth   he, 


216  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  that  brings  me  here  on  this  auspicious  day.  And 
how  has  been  my  learned  young  friend  Doctor  Sepr 
timius,  —  for  so  he  should  be  called,  —  and  how  have 
flourished  his  studies  of  late?  The  scientific  world 
may  look  for  great  fruits  from  that  decoction  of 
his." 

"He'll  never  equal  Aunt  Keziah  for  herb-drinks," 
said  an  old  woman,  smoking  her  pipe  in  the  corner, 
"though  I  think  likely  he.  '11  make  a  good  doctor 
enough  by  and  by.  Poor  Kezzy,  she  took  a  drop 
too  much  of  her  mixture,  after  all.  I  used  to  tell 
her  how  it  would  be;  for  Kezzy  and  I  ever  were 
pretty  good  friends  once,  before  the  Indian  in  her 
came  out  so  strongly, — the  squaw  and  the  witch, 
for  she  had  them  both  in  her  blood,  poor  yellow 
Kezzy  !  " 

"  Yes  I  had  she  indeed  ? "  quoth  the  doctor ;  •"  and 
I  have  heard  an  odd  story,  that  if  the  Feltons  chose 
to  go  back  to  the  old  country,  they  'd  find  a  home 
and  an  estate  there  ready  for  them." 

The  old  woman  mused,  and  puffed  at  her  pipe. 
"  Ah,  yes,"  muttered  she,  at  length,  "  I  remember  to 
have  heard  something  about  that ;  and  how,  if  Felton 
chose  to  strike  into  the  woods,  he  'd  find  a  tribe  of 
wild  Indians  there,  ready  to  take  him  for  their  saga 
more,  and  conquer  the  whites;  and  how,  if  he  chose 
to  go  to  England,  there  was  a  great  old  house  all 
ready  for  him,  and  a  fire  burning  in  the  hall,  and  a 
dinner-tafcle  spread,  and  the  tall-posted  bed  ready, 
with  clean  sheets,  in  the  best  chamber,  and  a  man 
waiting  at  the  gate  to  show  him  in.  Only  there  was 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  217 

a  spell  of  a  bloody  footstep  left  on  the  threshold  by 
the  last  that  came  out,  so  that  none  of  his  posterity 
could  ever  cross  it  again.  But  that  was  all  non 
sense." 

"  Strange  old  things  one  dreams  in  a  chimney- 
corner,"  quoth  the  doctor.  "Do  you  remember  any 
more  of  this  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  I  'm  so  forgetful  nowadays,"  said  old  Mrs. 
Hagburn ;  "  only  it  seems  as  if  I  had  my  memories 
in  my  pipe,  and  they  curl  up  in  smoke.  I  've  known 
these  Feltons  all  along,  or  it  seems  as  if  I  had ;  for 
I  'm  nigh  ninety  years  old  now,  and  I  was  two  year 
old  in  the  witch's  time,  and  I  have  seen  a  piece  of 
the  halter  that  old  Felton  was  hung  with." 

Some  of  the  company  laughed. 

"  That  must  have  been  a  curious  sight,"  quoth  the 
doctor. 

"It  is  not  well,"  said  the  minister  seriously  to  the 
doctor,  "  to  stir  up  these  old  remembrances,  making 
the  poor  old  lady  appear  absurd.  I  know  not  that 
she  need  to  be  ashamed  of  showing  the  weaknesses 
of  the  generation  to  which  she  belonged;  but  I  do 
not  like  to  see  old  age  put  at  this  disadvantage  among 
the  young." 

"  Nay,  my  good  and  reverend  sir,"  returned  the 
doctor,  "  I  mean  no  such  disrespect  as  you  seem  to 
think.  Forbid  it,  ye  upper  powers,  that  I  should  cast 
any  ridicule  on  beliefs  —  superstitions,  do  you  call 
them  1  —  that  are  as  worthy  of  faith,  for  aught  I 
know,  as  any  that  are  preached  in  the  pulpit.  If 
the  old  lady  would  tell  me  any  secret  of  the  old 
10 


218  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

Felton's  science,  I  shall  treasure  it  sacredly ;  for  1 
interpret  these  stories  about  his  miraculous  gifts  as 
meaning  that  he  had  a  great  command  over  natural 
science,  the  virtues  of  plants,  the  capacities  of  the 
human  body." 

While  these  things  were  passing,  or  before  they 
passed,  or  some  time  in  that  eventful  night,  Septim- 
ius  had  withdrawn  to  his  study,  when  there  was  a 
low  tap  heard  at  the  door,  and,  opening  it,  Sybil 
Dacy  stood  before  him.  It  seemed  as  if  there  had 
been  a  previous  arrangement  between  them ;  for  Sep- 
timius  evinced  no  surprise,  only  took  her  hand,  and 
drew  her  in. 

"  How  cold  your  hand  is  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Noth 
ing  is  so  cold,  except  it  be  the  potent  medicine.  It 
makes  me  shiver." 

" Never  mind  that,"  said  Sybil.  "You  look  fright 
ened  at  me." 

"Do  1 1 "  said  Septimius.  "  No,  not  that ;  but 
this  is  such  a  crisis ;  and  methinks  it  is  not  yourself. 
Your  eyes  glare  on  me  strangely." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  and  you  are  not  frightened  at  me  1 
Well,  I  will  try  not  to  be  frightened  at  myself.  Time 
was,  however,  when  I  should  have  been." 

She  looked  round  at  Septimius's  study,  with  its 
few  old  books,  its  implements  of  science,  crucibles, 
retorts,  and  electrical  machines;  all  these  she  no 
ticed  little ;  but  on  the  table  drawn  before  the  fire, 
there  was  something  that  attracted  her  attention ; 
it  was  a  vase  that  seemed  of  crystal,  made  in  that 
old  fashion  in  which  the  Venetians  made  their  glasses, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON.  219 

• —  a  most  pure  kind  of  glass,  with  a  long  stalk,  within 
which  was  a  curved  elaboration  of  fancy-work,  wreathed 
and  twisted.  This  old  glass  was  an  heirloom  of  the 
Feltons,  a  relic  that  had  come  down  with  many  tradi 
tions,  bringing  its  frail  fabric  safely  through  all  the 
perils  of  time,  that  had  shattered  empires ;  and,  if 
space  sufficed,  I  could  tell  many  stories  of  this  curious 
vase,  which  was  said,  in  its  time,  to  have  been  the  in 
strument  both  of  the  Devil's  sacrament  in  the  forest, 
and  of  the  Christian  in  the  village  meeting-house. 
But,  at  any  rate,  it  had  been  a  part  of  the  choice 
household  gear  of  one  of  Septimius's  ancestors,  and 
was  engraved  with  his  arms,  artistically  done. 

"  Is  that  the  drink  of  immortality  1"  said  Sybil. 

"  Yes,  Sybil,"  said  Septimius.  "  Do  but  touch  the 
goblet ;  see  how  cold  it  is." 

She  put  her  slender,  pallid  fingers  on  the  side  of  the 
goblet,  and  shuddered,  just  as  Septimius  did  when  he 
touched  her  hand. 

"  Why  should  it  be  so  cold  ] "  said  she,  looking  at 
Septimius. 

"  Nay,  I  know  not,  unless  because  endless  life  goes 
round  the  circle  and  meets  death,  and  is  just  the 
same  with  it.  0  Sybil,  it  is  a  fearful  thing  that  I 
have  accomplished.  Do  you  not  feel  it  so  1  What 
if  this  shiver  should  last  us  through  eternity  1 " 

"  Have  you  pursued  this  object  so  long,"  said  Sybil, 
"  to  have  these  fears  respecting  it  now  ?  In  that  case, 
methinks  I  could  be  bold  enough  to  drink  it  alone, 
and  look  down  upon  you,  as  I  did  so,  smiling  at  your 
fear  to  take  the  life  offered  you." 


220  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  I  do  not  fear,"  said  Septimius ;  "  but  yet  I  ac 
knowledge  there  is  a  strange,  „  powerful  abhorrence 
in  me  towards  this  draughtj  which  I  know  not  how  to 
account  for,  except  as  the  reaction,  the  revulsion  of 
feeling  consequent  upon  its  being  too  long  over 
strained  in  one  direction.  I  cannot  help  it.  The 
meannesses,  the  littlenesses,  the  perplexities,  the 
general  irksomeness  of  life,  weigh  upon  me  strangely. 
Thou  didst  refuse  to  drink  with  me.  That  being 
the  case,  methinks  I  could  break  the  jewelled  goblet 
now,  untasted,  and  choose  the  grave  as  the  wiser 
part." 

"  The  beautiful  goblet  !  What  a  pity  to  break  it !  " 
said  Sybil,  with  her  characteristic  malign  and  mys 
terious  smile.  "  You  cannot  find  it  in  your  heart  to 
do  it." 

"  I  could,  —  I  can.  So  thou  wilt  not  drink  with 
me?" 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  ask  *? "  said  Sybil.  "  I 
am  a  being  that  sprung  up,  like  this  flower,  out  of 
a  grave ;  or,  at  least,  I  took  root  in  a  grave,  and, 
growing  there,  have  twined  about  your  life,  until 
you  cannot  possibly  escape  from  me.  Ah,  Septimius  ! 
you  know  me  not.  You  know  not  what  is  in  my 
heart  towards  you.  Do  you  remember  this  broken 
miniature  1  would  you  wish  to  see  the  features  that 
were  destroyed  when  that  bullet  passed  1  Then  look 
at  mine  !  " 

"  Sybil  !  what  do  you  tell  me  1  Was  it  you  — 
were  they  your  features  —  which  that  young  soldier 
kissed  as  he  lay  dying  I" 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  221 

"  They  were,"  said  Sybil.  "  I  loved  him,  and  gave 
him  that  miniature,  and  the  face  they  represented.  I 
had  given  him  all,  and  you  slew  him." 

"  Then  you  hate  me,"  whispered  Septimius. 

"Do  you  call  it  hatred1?"  asked  Sybil,  smiling. 
"  Have  I  not  aided  you,  thought  with  you,  encouraged 
you,  heard  all  your  wild  ravings  when  you  dared 
to  tell  no  one  else  1  kept  up  your  hopes ;  suggested  ; 
helped  you  with  my  legendary  lore  to  useful  hints; 
helped  you,  also,  in  other  ways,  which  you  do  not 
suspect  1  And  now  you  ask  me  if  I  hate  you.  Does 
this  look  like  it  1 " 

"  No,"  said  Septimius.  "  And  yet,  since  first  I 
knew  you,  there  has  been  something  whispering  me 
of  harm,  as  if  I  sat  near  some  mischief.  There  is 
in  me  the  wild,  natural  blood  of  the  Indian,  the 
instinctive,  the  animal  nature,  which  has  ways  of 
warning  that  civilized  life  polishes  away  and  cuts  out ; 
and  so,  Sybil,  never  did  I  approach  you,  but  there 
were  reluctances,  drawings  back,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  a  strong  impulse  to  come  closest  to  you ; 
and  to  that  I  yielded.  But  why,  then,  knowing 
that  in  this  grave  lay  the  man  you  loved,  laid  there 
by  my  hand,  —  why  did  you  aid  me  in  an  object 
which  you  must  have  seen  was  the  breath  of  my 
life  ]  " 

"Ah,  my  friend,  — my  enemy,  if  you  will  have  it 
so,  —  are  you  yet  to  learn  that  the  wish  of  a  man's 
inmost  heart  is  oftenest  that  by  which  he  is  ruined 
and  made  miserable  1  But  listen  to  me,  Septimius. 
No  matter  for  my  earlier  life ;  there  is  no  reason 


222  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

why  I  should  tell  you  the  story,  and  confess  to  you 
its  weakness,  its  shame.  It  may  be,  I  had  more 
cause  to  hate  the  tenant  of  that"  grave,  than  to  hate 
you  who  unconsciously  avenged  my  cause ;  never 
theless,  I  came  here  in  hatred,  and  desire  of  re 
venge,  meaning  to  lie  in  wait,  and  turn  your  dear 
est  desire  against  you,  to  eat  into  your  life,  and 
distil  poison  into  it,  I  sitting  on  this  grave,  and 
drawing  fresh  hatred  from  it ;  and  at  last,  in  the 
hour  of  your  triumph,  I  meant  to  make  the  triumph 
mine." 

"  Is  this  still  so  ? "  asked  Septimius,  with  pale  lips  ; 
"  or  did  your  fell  purpose  change  1 " 

"  Septimius,  I  am  weak,  —  a  weak,  weak  girl,  — . 
only  a  girl,  Septimius ;  only  eighteen  yet,"  exclaimed 
Sybil.  "  It  is  young,  is  it  not  1  I  might  be  forgiven 
much.  You  know  not  how  bitter  my  purpose  was  to 
you.  But  look,  Septimius,  —  could  it  be  worse  than 
this  ?  Hush,  be  still !  Do  not  stir  !  " 

She  lifted  the  beautiful  goblet  from  the  table, 
put  it  to  her  lips,  and  drank  a  deep  draught  from 
it;  then,  smiling  mockingly,  she  held  it  towards 
him. 

"See;  I  have  made  myself  immortal  before  you. 
Will  you  drink  1 " 

He  eagerly  held  out  his  hand  to  receive  the  goblet, 
but  Sybil,  holding  it  beyond  his  reach  a  moment,  de 
liberately  let  it  fall  upon  the  hearth,  where  it  shivered 
into  fragments,  and  the  bright,  cold  water  of  immor 
tality  was  all  spilt,  shedding  its  strange  fragrance 
around. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  223 

"  Sybil,  what  have  you  done  1 "  cried  Septimius  in 
rage  and  horror. 

"  Be  quiet !  See  what  sort  of  immortality  I  win  by 
it,  —  then,  if  you  like,  distil  your  drink  of  eternity 
again,  and  quaff  it." 

"  It  is  too  late,  Sybil  j  it  was  a  happiness  that  may 
never  come  again  in  a  lifetime.  I  shall  perish  as  a 
dog  does.  It  is  too  late  !  " 

"  Septimius,"  said  Sybil,  who  looked  strangely  beau 
tiful,  as  if  the  drink,  giving  her  immortal  life,  had 
likewise  the  potency  to  give  immortal  beauty  answer 
ing  to  it.  "Listen  to  me.  You  have  not  learned 
all  the  secrets  that  lay  in  those  old  legends,  about 
which  we  have  talked  so  much.  There  were  two 
recipes,  discovered  or  learned  by  the  art  of  the  stu 
dious  old  Gaspar  Felton.  One  was  said  to  be  that 
secret  of  immortal  life  which  so  many  old  sages  sought 
for,  and  which  some  were  said  to  have  found ;  though, 
if  that  were  the  case,  it  is  strange  some  of  them 
have  not  lived  till  our  day.  Its  essence  lay  in  a 
certain  rare  flower,  which,  mingled  properly  with 
other  ingredients  of  great  potency  in  themselves, 
though  still  lacking  the  crowning  virtue  till  the 
flower  was  supplied,  produced  the  drink  of  immor 
tality." 

"Yes,  and  I  had  the  flower,  which  I  found  in  a 
grave,"  said  Septimius,  "  and  distilled  the  drink,  which 
you  have  spilt." 

"You  had  a  flower,  or  what  you  called  a  flower," 
said  the  girl.  "  But,  Septimius,  there  was  yet  another 
drink,  in  which  the  same  potent  ingredients  were 


224  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

used ;  all  but  the  last.  In  this,  instead  of  the  beau 
tiful  flower,  was  mingled  the  semblance  of  a  flower, 
but  really  a  baneful  growth  out  of  a  grave.  This  I 
sowed  there,  and  it  converted  the  drink  into  a  poison, 
famous  in  old  science,  —  a  poison  which  the  Borgias 
used,  and  Mary  do  Medicis,  —  and  which  has  brought 
to  death  many  a  famous  person,  when  it  was  desirable 
to  his  enemies.  This  is  the  drink  I  helped  you  to 
distil.  It  brings  on  death  with  pleasant  and  delight 
ful  thrills  of  the  nerves.  0  Septimius,  Septimius,  it 
is  worth  while  to  die,  to  be  so  blest,  so  exhilarated 
as  I  am  now." 

"Good  God,  Sybil,  is  this  possible?" 

"Even  so,  Scptimius.  I  was  helped  by  that  old 
physician,  Doctor  Portsoaken,  who,  with  some  private 
purpose  of  his  own,  taught  me  what  to  do ;  for  he 
was  skilled  in  all  the  mysteries  of  those  old  phy 
sicians,  and  knew  that  their  poisons  at  least  were 
efficacious,  whatever  their  drinks  of  immortality 
might  be.  But  the  end  has  not  turned  out  as  I 
meant.  A  girl's  fancy  is  so  shifting,  Septimius.  I 
thought  I  loved  that  youth  in  the  grave  yonder ; 
but  it  was  you  I  loved,  —  and  I  am  dying.  Forgive 
me  for  my  evil  purposes,  for  I  am  dying." 

"Why  hast  thou  spilt  the  drink?"  said  Septimius, 
bending  his  dark  brows  upon  her,  and  frowning  over 
her.  "  We  might  have  died  together." 

"  No,  live,  Scptimius,"  said  the  girl,  whose  face 
appeared  to  grow  bright  and  joyous,  as  if  the  drink 
of  death  exhilarated  her  like  an  intoxicating  fluid. 
"  I  would  not  let  you  have  it,  not  one  drop.  But  to 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  225 

think,"  and  here  she  laughed,  "  what  a  penance,  — 
what  months  of  wearisome  labor  thou  hast  had,  — 
and  what  thoughts,  what  dreams,  and  how  I  laughed 
in  my  sleeve  at  them  all  the  time  !  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Then  thou  didst  plan  out  future  ages,  and  talked 
poetry  and  prose  to  me.  Did  I  not  take  it  very 
demurely,  and  answer  thee  in  the  same  style1?  and 
so  thou  didst  love  me,  and  kindly  didst  wish  to  take 
me  with  thee  in  thy  immortality.  0  Septimius,  I 
should  have  liked  it  well!  Yes,  latterly,  only,  I 
knew  how  the  case  stood.  0,  how  I  surrounded  thee 
with  dreams,  and  instead  of  giving  thee  immortal 
life,  so  kneaded  up  the  little  life  allotted  thee  with 
dreams  and  vaporing  stuff,  that  thou  didst  not  really 
live  even  that.  Ah,  it  was  a  pleasant  pastime,  and 
pleasant  is  now  the  end  of  it.  Kiss  me,  thou  poor 
Septimius,  one  kiss  !  " 

[She  gives  the  ridiculous  aspect  to  his  scheme,  in  an 
airy  way.] 

But  as  Septimius,  who  seemed  stunned,  instinc 
tively  bent  forward  to  obey  her,  she  drew  back. 
"  No,  there  shall  be  no  kiss  !  There  may  a  little 
poison  linger  on  my  lips.  Farewell !  Dost  thou 
mean  still  to  seek  for  thy  liquor  of  immortality  ?  — 
ah,  ah  !  It  was  a  good  jest.  We  will  laugh  at  it 
when  we  meet  in  the  other  world." 

And  here  poor  Sybil  Dacy's  laugh  grew  fainter, 
and  dying  away,  she  seemed  to  die  with  it ;  for 
there  she  was,  with  that  mirthful,  half-malign  ex 
pression  still  on  her  face,  but  motionless ;  so  that 
however  long  Septimius's  life  was  likely  to  be,  wheth- 
10*  o 


226  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

er  a  few  years  or  many  centuries,  he  would  still  have 
her  image  in  his  memory  so.  And  here  she  lay 
among  his  broken  hopes,  now  shattered  as  completely 
as  the  goblet  which  held  his  draught,  and  as  incapa 
ble  of  being  formed  again. 

The  next  day,  as  Septimius  did  not  appear,  there 
was  research  for  him  on  the  part  of  Doctor  Port- 
soaken.  His  room  was  found  empty,  the  bed  un 
touched.  Then  they  sought  him  on  his  favorite 
hill-top;  but  neither  was  he  found  there,  although 
something  was  found  that  added  to  the  wonder  and 
alarm  of  his  disappearance.  It  was  the  cold  form 
of  Sybil  Dacy,  which  was  extended  on  the  hillock  so 
often  mentioned,  with  her  arms  thrown  over  it ;  but, 
looking  in  the  dead  face,  the  beholders  were  aston 
ished  to  see  a  certain  malign  and  mirthful  expression, 
as  if  some  airy  part  had  been  played  out,  —  some 
surprise,  some  practical  joke  of  a  peculiarly  airy- 
kind  had  burst  with  fairy  shoots  of  fire  among  the 
company. 

"Ah,  she  is  dead!  Poor  Sybil  Dacy,"  exclaimed 
Doctor  Portsoaken.  "Her  scheme,  then,  has  turned 
out  amiss." 

This  exclamation  seemed  to  imply  some  knowledge 
of  the  mystery;  and  it  so  impressed  the  auditors, 
among  whom  was  Robert  Hagburn,  that  they  thought 
it  not  inexpedient  to  have  an  investigation;  so  the 
learned  doctor  was  not  uncivilly  taken  into  custody 
and  examined.  Several  interesting  particulars,  some 
of  which  throw  a  certain  degree  of  light  on  our  nar- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  227 

rative,  were  discovered.  For  instance,  that  Sybil 
Dacy,  who  was  a  niece  of  the  doctor,  had  been  be 
guiled  from  her  home  and  led  over  the  sea  by  Cyril 
Norton,  and  that  the  doctor,  arriving  in  Boston  with 
another  regiment,  had  found  her  there,  after  her 
lover's  death.  Here  there  was  some  discrepancy  or 
darkness  in  the  doctor's  narrative.  He  appeared  to 
have  consented  to,  or  instigated  (for  it  was  not  quite 
evident  how  far  his  concurrence  had  gone)  this  poor 
girl's  scheme  of  going  and  brooding  over  her  lover's 
grave,  and  living  in  close  contiguity  with  the  man  wrho 
had  slain  him.  The  doctor  had  not  much  to  say  for 
himself  on  this  point ;  but  there  was  found  reason  to 
believe  that  he  was  acting  in  the  interest  of  some 
English  claimant  of  a  great  estate  that  was  left  with 
out  an  apparent  heir  by  the  death  of  Cyril  Norton ; 
and  there  was  even  a  suspicion  that  he,  with  his  fan 
tastic  science  and  antiquated  empiricism,  had  been  at 
the  bottom  of  the  scheme  of  poisoning,  which  was  so 
strangely  intertwined  with  Septimius's  notion,  in  which 
he  went  so  nearly  crazed,  of  a  drink  of  immortality. 
It  was  observable,  however,  that  the  doctor  —  such  a 
humbug  in  scientific  matters,  that  he  had  perhaps 
bewildered  himself — seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  faith 
in  the  efficacy  of  the  recipe  which  had  so  strangely 
come  to  light,  provided  the  true  flower  could  be 
discovered ;  but  that  flower,  according  to  Doctor  Port- 
soaken,  had  not  been  seen  on  earth  for  many  centuries, 
and  was  banished  probably  forever.  The  flower,  or 
fungus,  which  Septimius  had  mistaken  for  it,  was  a  sort 
of  earthly  or  devilish  counterpart  of  it,  and  was  greatly 


228  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

in  request  among  the  old  poisoners  for  its  admirable 
uses  in  their  art.  In  fine,  no  tangible  evidence  being 
found  against  the  worthy  doctor,  he  was  permitted  to 
depart,  and  disappeared  from  the  neighborhood,  to 
the  scandal  of  many  people,  unhanged ;  leaving  be 
hind  him  few  available  effects  beyond  the  web  and 
empty  skin  of  an  enormous  spider. 

As  to  Septimius,  he  returned  no  more  to  his  cottage 
by  the  wayside,  and  none  undertook  to  tell  what  had 
become  of  him ;  crushed  and  annihilated,  as  it  were, 
by  the  failure  of  his  magnificent  and  most  absurd 
dreams.  Rumors  there  have  been,  however,  at  vari 
ous  times,  that  there  had  appeared  an  American 
claimant,  who  had  made  out  his  right  to  the  great 
estate  of  Smithell's  Hall,  and  had  dwelt  there,  and 
left  posterity,  and  that  in  the  subsequent  generation 
an  ancient  baronial  title  had  been  revived  in  favor  of 
the  son  and  heir  of  the  American.  Whether  this  was 
our  Septimius,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  should  be  rather 
sorry  to  believe  that  after  such  splendid  schemes  as 
he  had  entertained,  he  should  have  been  content  to 
settle  down  into  the  fat  substance  and  reality  of  Eng 
lish  life,  and  die  in  his  due  time,  and  be  buried  like 
any  other  man. 

A  few  years  ago,  while  in  England,  I  visited 
Smithell's  Hall,  and  was  entertained  there,  not  know 
ing  at  the  time  that  I  could  claim  its  owner  as 
my  countryman  by  descent;  though,  as  I  now  re 
member,  I  was  struck  by  the  thin,  sallow,  American 
cast  of  his  face,  and  the  lithe  slenderness  of  his 
figure,  and  seem  now  (but  this  may  be  my  fancy)  to 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  229 

recollect  a  certain  Indian  glitter  of  the  eye,  and  cast 
of  feature. 

As  for  the  Bloody  Footstep,  I  saw  it  with  my  own 
eyes,  and  will  venture  to  suggest  that  it  was  a  mere 
natural  reddish  stain  in  the  stone,  converted  by  super 
stition  into  a  Bloody  Footstep. 


THE   END. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  C*. 


o.o 


'65 


